


red sky at night

by nightbloomings



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Author Dorian, Blow Jobs, Folklore, Frottage, Honnleath, M/M, Making Out, POV Alternating, PTSD, Returning Home, Seaside, Sex Before Feelings, Veteran Cullen, emotional unavailability
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-06
Updated: 2016-03-25
Packaged: 2018-04-25 05:13:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 32,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4948003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightbloomings/pseuds/nightbloomings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The village of Honnleath is a world away from everything Dorian is used to, as though it's been stuck in time or abandoned by it—he really can't say which. It's steeped in myth and mystery, though none so intriguing as the quiet, reclusive veteran that always seems so far away, even when they're sharing the same small stretch of the shore.</p><p>--------------------</p><p>or: the one where Dorian is an author, come to Honnleath to research his next story, and Cullen is a veteran struggling to keep afloat in the small village he grew up in. both out of their depth and their element, they turn unintentionally to each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm excited to finally be able to start sharing this one with you guys. it's been in the works for a while but it took a minute for me to strike the right tone for it. I think I have, and I've gotten a good start on it, so here it is.
> 
> I've got the first six chapters and the ending fully planned, but everything in between is still a bit in the air. I know what events I want to happen and what beats to hit, but haven't yet put all those parts in their places. I think it'll all come together nicely, though.
> 
> as an fyi, my snorefest day job is a lot more energy-consuming than it was when I was writing [two if by chance](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4447367), so I can't make any commitments to how frequently I'll update at this point. I'm going to aim for "weekly" but please understand if it occasionally stretches on a bit longer than that.
> 
> also, for the sake of narrative and atmosphere and "it just works better this way," I'm pulling the AU card in terms of where cities mentioned are located in relation to each other, compared to canon.
> 
> \----------
> 
> if you're the sort who likes to listen to music while you read for maximum feelings potential, listen to [this mix](http://8tracks.com/illburnthatbridge/red-sky-at-night) that [commanderruthernerd](http://commanderruthernerd.tumblr.com) aka my best bro for life made to accompany this story. it's perfectly on point, tbh!

The only way to reach Honnleath from Denerim is by boat, and not a large, comfortable passenger ferry, either. Rather, with a decent fistful of cash, one can buy passage across the Waking Sea in small boats owned by men who made their living in such a manner. Clearly no one from the city is interested in visiting this sleepy, distant fishing village. Or perhaps it's the other way around, and the locals do their best to make interlopers think twice, Dorian thinks dryly as he disembarks from the vessel.

The trip has been miserable—cold, windy, and wet, leaving his hair flattened, his clothes soaked, and his skin permanently chilled in all likelihood. He'd felt close to retching more than few times but mercifully he'd been able to maintain that last shred of dignity.

Regardless, as he shuffles with careful steps down the slick wooden dock, he immediately regrets the decision to set his novel in this place. Were it not for the sizeable advance transferred to his account a week prior, he'd turn tail and swim back to the city if need be. But such is the mess he's gotten himself into with his wildly successful debut novel: a subsequent multi-book contract and the need for an even more successful sophomore attempt.

The premise is good. Promising. A bit of local folklore, unbeknownst to anyone unfamiliar with the village, edged with the thrill lent by the spectres of magic and demons and whatever manner of things that go bump in the night. _Magical realism_ , as the industry's calling it these days. It will be simple enough to construct, but before he can even begin to put pen to paper, as it were, some local reconnaissance is necessary. And more than that, he needs the immersion; it won't do to write such a thing from the modern, minimalist office in his loft, which feels more than a few worlds away now that he's reached dry land again.

He has an open reservation at the sole bed and breakfast in the village, and knows immediately upon disembarking that there's no hope of a taxi or a car hire so he's left with no choice but to walk. He checks his mobile reflexively, expecting at least a few different notifications waiting for him but, rather unsurprisingly, there's zero reception to be had so he pockets it and sets off.

There are, mercifully, signs pointing him in the right direction. He skirts the western edge of the heart of the village, with his brown calf leather duffel slung across his chest, and after a few blocks it becomes rather apparent just how much he sticks out from the locals—with his waxed leather jacket, his slim jeans that once bore a price tag in the triple digits, his myriad gold jewellery, his tattoo, and so on.

 _So much for any sort of_ undercover _reconnaissance, then._

His walk leads him up a hill steep enough to leave him reaching for his next breaths by the time he crests it. There are no sidewalks to speak of, save for strips of gravel on either side of the single-lane road, though he's yet to see a car of any sort since leaving the harbour. "Does no one ever _leave_ this bloody place?" he mutters to himself, turning around in the middle of the road to look back in the direction from which he's come.

It's rather picturesque, the view from the hill, in the way it encompasses the small boats dotting the harbour, the white chalk cliffs that began to jut out from the black sand and rock coastline towards the east, and the village nestled in between. A low, thin fog has settled in at his heels, blanketing it all in mist, and if he didn't disbelieve so fervently in the supernatural, he might let himself be guiled into thinking that all the myths and folk stories about this place are true.

After another few minutes' walk, he comes to the bed and breakfast. It's set in a large house, three stories, shaped like a grey brick cube topped with a gabled roof. Five star, modern accommodations it is not, but with the shrubbery and moderately-tended garden out front, it's charming in its way. 

He barely gets a word in as he checks in with the portly woman at the front desk, named Margaret, which is a rare thing for him. It suits him now, though, because he's tired.

And wet; still very wet.

He takes his key and thanks Margaret as graciously as he can manage, and convinces her that yes, he can find his room on the third floor just fine on his own. The lift is broken, because of course it would be, though after seeing how old it is, he's not exactly disappointed with taking the stairs.

His room is small; the door barely clears the foot of the bed when he opens it, and were his arms just a little longer, he's rather sure he could reach across the width of it. But it has a desk as he'd requested when he made the booking, two large windows in the corner near the head of the bed, and it smells like lavender, so it will all do quite nicely.

He drops his duffle onto the bed, and crawls onto it to look through the windows. The one above the pillows looks out onto the same view as before of the village and the harbour, and the one to his left looks out onto gentle hills blanketed in verdant grass. It's entirely untouched, the view from that window, except for a small white house with a rust brick roof that sits atop one of the smaller hills.

Dorian finds himself smiling as he pulls back from the window and gets off the bed. Despite the hellish trip to get here, Honnleath is shaping up to be very quaint. Within a week he's sure to be tearing his own hair out for want of his modern comforts at home, but for the moment, he feels optimistic.

A deep yawn takes him then and he can't even be bothered to stifle it. Exploration of the village and its surrounds will have to wait until the morning. Right now, he's going to shower and sleep as long as he possibly can.

 

In the morning, Dorian takes a cup of tea in the dining room of the bed and breakfast. He'd rather have coffee, more out of reflex than preference—rare is the morning that's started without coffee, for him—but there isn't any on offer. At least it's a strong tea. He helps himself to a scone slathered in strawberry jam well, because they smell divine. "Both made in house," Margaret reminds him as she passes by. It's not brunch at one of the trendy cafes in Denerim, by any stretch, but he pockets a scone for the road all the same.

Honnleath has dried out overnight and when he steps out into the sunny morning, he feels renewed. He heads back towards the village the same way that he came the night before and it all looks so different now, blanketed in warm light instead of stifled by low, thick clouds. Even that little house up on the hill to the west looks a brighter shade of white. The sea stretches out beyond the village to the north and it's a pretty pale grey-green, sparkling even from this far away; nothing at all like the vast, oppressive slate grey monster he'd seen it as yesterday while his stomach was still roiling from the boat ride. It's faint, but he can smell the brine from here.

He bypasses the village again, wrapping around its edge to the west and heading for the shoreline. He wants to walk the entirety of the town, from corner to corner and back again, to familiarise himself with it, to get a feel for its rhythms and patterns. He has a notepad and his phone in the back pocket of his jeans to document whatever inspiration he can find, and he's not returning to the bed and breakfast until he's come up with a suitable starting point for his first draft, he's decided.

Up close, the sand of the shoreline is really more a mottled charcoal than a true black, now that he can see smooth, round, white rocks dotted across it. The waves are gentle and the tide is low at this hour but it looks dramatic even so, against the dark shore. The scent of salt on the air is stronger, sharper this close to the water but it doesn't feel acrid in Dorian's nose the way it did yesterday, from the boat. It's pleasant now, and he's sure that's a trick of his mood. The sun, probably, or the restful sleep he had. Maybe the scone from breakfast, even.

He walks along the top of the beach, his pace slow and the heels of his boots leaving deep, solid imprints in the damp sand. The harbour in the east looms closer, with its small collection of boats bobbing gently in the water. And then he sees a man sitting on a log. It's set out on the outcrop of rock that extends beyond the sand, near enough to the waterline that when the tide comes in, the whole thing must get swallowed up. As Dorian comes closer, he can make out more detail—the man is hunched over and compact, arms wrapped around his knees like a child, fingers gripping into the sleeves of his thick knit cardigan, and he's staring rather intently at something near his feet.

A bit of an odd sight, but he suits the landscape. It's hard to tell how old he is, for the large collar covering most of his face, but Dorian's mind wastes no time in deciding he's a weathered seafarer, too old to man his boat, too used to life on the water to do anything else. Instinctively, Dorian's hand reaches for his phone but he pauses before pulling it completely from his back pocket. It doesn't feel right to take a picture, as if the moment is too personal somehow, but… it _is_ a good moment, for the novel. What if the man were to look up just as Dorian was aiming his phone at him? Mortifying.

But maybe he can just…

He takes out his phone and opens the camera, trying to frame a shot that includes the man without it being of him exclusively. He ends up with a picture of the beach, a handful of boats bleeding in from the right, and the man and his log in the left corner.

With his phone now in his hand, Dorian's taken by the impulse to check for notifications. It's only the second day away from Denerim and on the one hand, he's rather impressed that this is the first he's thought to look at his phone since disembarking from the boat the day before. On the other, however, he realises that he'd been _asleep_ for the majority of that time.

Small victories, at any rate.

He's expecting an email from Mae, or a missed call from Felix. And he's hoping for a text from Rilienus. He hates that he does, but there it is. It isn't even within the bounds of their usual relationship to send texts on a whim, to see how the other's doing, not when there isn't the implied promise of a fuck at the end of it all. 

Perhaps this distance from his life will be good for more than just his novel.


	2. Chapter 2

Cullen has always found living his life easiest when he's able to break it down into routines.

He was a well-adjusted and affable kid, and he had his core group of friends, but none of that spared him when he was reliably the first to hand in his homework each day. It earned him jeers and jabs all throughout school, from his siblings and his classmates alike, but he never missed an assignment or had an overdue library book because of it.

It was that same sense of order that had propelled him towards the Royal Military Academy in Denerim, as soon as they would accept him. The structure there was reliable, and to him, comforting. Idleness made him uneasy. He graduated early, with commendations, and it wasn't long before Cullen had worked his way from Officer Cadet Rutherford to Captain Rutherford.

And that's when the routines began to crumble. His promotion to Captain was bestowed upon him after Kinloch, a hostage situation in a large, remote boarding school that was so glossed over, with so many details redacted in the reports provided to the media, that it almost made Cullen question whether he had ever even been in that hell, despite the scars it left on his body and his psyche.

Then came Kirkwall. He was shipped out before the dust had settled at Kinloch, at special request of his new Major, Meredith Stannard. He covered those scars, quick and dirty, and settled into new routines. But the damage had been done, in Kinloch, and as much as he tried to ignore that fact, the demons of his memories wouldn't leave him be. He buried himself in his new role as second-in-command, focusing solely on seeing to the execution of his orders. It harkened back to his life in service before Kinloch, and the familiarity of it comforted him in some way. But it made him complacent, also. Perhaps, he wonders now, if he'd been more present, if he'd clung less to what he thought he needed to get by, he wouldn't have ended up on the wrong side of the moral divide that would cleave Kirkwall in two.

With Stannard dead, it was expected that Cullen would take a promotion and pick up where she left off. But he couldn't. The panic attacks had never left him after Kinloch, but they'd abated to the point he'd been sleeping decently before Kirkwall imploded in on itself. They returned with the smouldering ash that rained down on the city, and the mere thought of serving any longer, of setting himself up for another Kinloch or another Kirkwall, was too much to bear.

He'd long since served his minimum commission, and was granted an honourable discharge. He gravitated towards Denerim—it was the last city he'd known, that he'd felt comfortable in, and it felt natural to settle there. Except, nothing settled. Nothing within and around Cullen was the same as it'd been during Academy. Everything in Denerim was too much, too overwhelming, too loud. A car would backfire down the street, probably entirely unnoticed by everyone around it, except it'd send Cullen huddling behind whatever served as decent cover in his sparse apartment. He slept less than in any other period in his life, and it showed. His sister, Mia, came to visit in his third month there. Cullen could count the number of times he'd seen Mia cry on one hand, with fingers to spare, but when he'd opened his apartment door to her, she'd crumbled into tears with one look at him.

And now he's in Honnleath. He'd grown up a short distance from the village, and still, almost fifteen years later, nothing has changed. At eighteen, that thought would've filled Cullen with some sort of existential dread.

At thirty two, it's about the most comforting thing possible. 

He wakes up early in the morning, often before the sun, and he heads down the rickety, old stairs in his rickety, old house to the kitchen. He makes a cup of coffee in his single-serving French press—a housewarming gift from his brother, Branson—and drinks it, leant up against the counter. Two sugars, no cream. He still drinks coffee despite the insomnia, because it doesn't seem to make a difference. He's gone weeks without it, and he went just as long without sleeping a full night, too. Beyond that, it's another way he reminds himself that this place is home now, that he's not in service anymore, because this is decidedly _not_ the instant coffee that he'd never been able to get used to. There's never any grit left behind by undissolved grounds, the brew is never watered down, and there's as much sugar as he likes. Some people might read the morning paper while they drink their coffee, but the only way to get hold of a newspaper in Honnleath is to take a turn with one of the communal ones at the grocers or the tea house. And that suits Cullen fine because, right now, he'd rather not know that there's a world outside the little enclave he's managed to craft for himself here.

When he's had his fill of coffee, he throws on his thickest, warmest cardigan and rides his bike down the hill to the shore.

The expanse of black sand gives way to a jigsaw of jagged brown-brindled rocks, dotted with driftwood logs. And amongst the rocks, there's a large tide pool that's formed. When the tide is low as it is this early in the morning, it's like an ocean all unto itself for all the small fish that end up trapped inside. A pair of little orange starfish are usually there amongst the barnacles and the anemones too, and small crabs now and then. It's calming and grounding, surrounded by the cool briny air, and it's his favourite place to sit to watch the sunrise. Of course it's not always sunny in Honnleath, not by any stretch, but even when it's overcast and raining, Cullen still comes to sit most mornings.

After the tide pool, Cullen goes into town to take care of whatever needs taking care of. This morning, it's groceries. He has a small garden of his own, next to the house, but he doesn't have a green thumb for everything… or for most things. And besides that, you can't grow eggs and cheese in the dirt no matter your gardening prowess.

He rides over to the grocers and nods at Roland, the shop owner, as the little bell above the door chimes his entry. Cullen has no idea how old Roland is, beyond "old," because he ran the same shop when Cullen was a boy trailing in after his mum, and he'd been "old" back then too.

Cullen takes a basket from the small stack by the door and begins to weave through the few aisles of the shop, collecting his groceries. It ends up being a hodgepodge in his basket, as always, because he doesn't ever prepare anything more complicated than roasted meats and steamed vegetables, toasted bagels with peanut butter or jam, porridge, and handfuls of cereal straight from the box. The whole process is another small novelty that he hadn't realised how much he'd missed while in service, until he was no longer in it.

Roland clears his throat heartily from the front of the shop, which Cullen knows is how he prefaces any conversation he's about to strike up. "You seen the new bloke walking around?" he calls out.

Cullen's the only other person in the shop at the moment, so it has to be a question for him even if it wasn't directed at him. "Can't say I have, Roland," Cullen answers, as he pulls back from the dairy fridge.

"Washed up on one of the boats. Yesterday, they figure." There's no clue as to who "they" are but Cullen has no interest in pressing it. "From the city."

'The city' is local terminology for any place in Ferelden that isn't Honnleath, it seems. The only doctor in town is from 'the city,' and he came from Redcliffe. Cullen himself has told various people several times that he used to live in Denerim, and still he's known as the veteran from 'the city.'

Cullen makes a noise of acknowledgement as he heads towards the till.

"Traipsed all through town, so much jewellery on him he was lit up like a Satinalia tree. Fancy clothes, too." Roland reaches for Cullen's basket before he's even set it on the counter, putting each item into a paper bag without looking.

"He came through the shop, then?"

Roland grunts and shakes his head, the end of his long beard trembling with the motion. "Nah. Gerry by the docks seen him, told me about him."

Cullen can't help but scoff inwardly at that. Honnleath is small and insular, and that means the locals are nothing but a bunch of busybodies that notice each and every change in the village, no matter how subtle or insignificant. Even when he'd moved back, there'd been rumour and gossip about him for weeks, and he'd even grown up here.

"Well, I'm sure you'll all keep an eye on him, Roland," Cullen says, handing over some money. The corner of his lip twitches up when he sees a brief grimace cross Roland's face. He's a nice enough man but it doesn't hurt to take a shot at his—and everyone else's—nosiness now and then.

Roland grunts and pushes Cullen's bag across the counter. "Who knows why he's here, is all I'm sayin'," he says as Cullen heads for the door.

"Why indeed…" Cullen mutters to himself, stepping out into the street. He reaches for his bike with his free hand, puts the bag of groceries into the makeshift basket on the back, and walks it a short way down the sidewalk before hopping on.

He rides home, quick as he can up the hill. The only _why_ he knows the answer to is why he bought the small house that sits all by itself on the small hill so far outside the centre of the village. 


	3. Chapter 3

The same man is sitting on the same log this morning, as he has been every morning since Dorian arrived in Honnleath a week ago. And it _has_ been every morning, Dorian knows, because he's taken the same path down from the bed and breakfast every morning before turning in towards the village to explore a new part of it.

He's seen the entirety of it by now, he's sure, for how small it is. There's a small chantry at the heart of it, clearly old and well used, but well maintained too. The rest of the village spirals out away from the chantry in rickety circles. There's a pub, which is always busy regardless of the time of day, a small library, which Dorian has yet to venture into, and there's a grocer, a butcher, and a baker.

All that's missing is the candlestick maker, evidently.

What it all conspires to, for Dorian, is evening after evening spent in his room. It ought to be a good and helpful distraction, getting lost in his writing and getting away from his thoughts, except that he's barely managing to write. Instead, he's making very meagre and disappointing progress, and his deadline isn't moving any further away.

Which is how he's found himself in the small tea house in town. It's a quaint little place, with a view of the harbour, and it's sleepy, but still it's more hustle and bustle than his room at the bed and breakfast so it'll do just fine. He settles in at a table next to the front window with his notebook, his laptop, and a large pot of Darjeeling, and he puts down a thousand words in his first hour.

At some point during his second hour, another person comes into the shop, and Dorian can't help but notice as it's the first movement he's caught out the corner of his eye since he sat down. He looks up to see who's entered, and—

He'd recognise that shawl collar cardigan anywhere.

It's a marled blue, he can tell from this close, and the man wearing it isn't a weathered seafarer at all.

Dorian watches the man from behind as he heads for the counter at the back of the shop. His shoulders are broad but the line of them is slack, and it diminishes his considerable height. He makes conversation with the woman at the till, his hip cocking to the side so he can lean against the counter, and Dorian's eyes follow the line of his back to his arse.

It's definitely not the arse of a man who's spent his whole life sitting on it in some fishing boat, that's for certain.

Dorian tries to go back to work, returning his attention to his laptop, only to be distracted again when the man turns away from the counter and heads for the front door. He's carrying a tin of tea and a small paper bag, likely holding one of the baked treats from the glass case next to the till. Dorian makes eye contact with him as he nears his table, and gives him a smile. It must be a good one too, because the man freezes and goes a bit slackjawed, as though he's surprised to have been seen. He recovers in the next second, smiling back at Dorian quickly, tightly, then takes longer strides to reach the door.

Wholly intrigued, Dorian turns in his seat to watch the man. He puts his purchases into the basket on the back of a bike and then rides away, as if all in one single, practiced motion. Dorian turns back to his work with a quirked smile, touched by the charming awkwardness of that encounter.

However it seems that he's entirely distracted now, and he can't get back into his writing. He sighs after a stilted five minutes of staring at the screen of his laptop, and mutters at himself to get a grip. It won't do to have his inspiration wracked by the first attractive man he's seen in this place.

Still, he can't help but ask after the man with the cardigan when the shop owner comes to his table to top up the hot water in his tea pot.

"Oh, him," she says, gently returning the pot's lid. "He's been here a short while, a few months or so if I remember correctly. His family is from here: the Rutherfords, though Cullen's the only one here now. He was gone for a long time, headed for the city as soon as he could… been in the war, you know." Dorian nods, hoping she might carry on with the gossip, as seemingly everyone in Honnleath is wont to do. And it works. "He keeps to himself, mostly; sometimes he disappears for a few days at a time on his boat. He's quiet when he does come into town, but he's a sweet boy, always asks how you're faring and all that."

Dorian hums thoughtfully and thanks her—ostensibly for the hot water, but he really means it for the information. It seems Honnleath's predilection for nosiness, as much as it's irked him when directed at him over the last week, is actually somewhat of a useful tool because he finds himself positively _intrigued_ by this Cullen Rutherford.

He'd make a perfect character for the book, somehow. Possibly a main character, even. Dorian turns back to his writing in earnest, his curiosity sated for now, and it's settled: they need to meet, somehow.

 

A few days later in the week, Dorian heads for the beach yet again, only now he's going to cross over onto the sand, instead of carrying on into the village.

Sure enough, this Cullen Rutherford is sitting on his usual log out on the rocks when Dorian nears the shore, cardigan and all, and Dorian's stomach flips just the slightest bit to see him. Whether it's excitement or nerves, he can't tell, and he doesn't even know which would be the more appropriate feeling in a situation like this anyway. Dorian's no stranger to networking, schmoozing and chatting people up to get what he needs, but this… isn't really that. What does he need out of this, exactly, beyond satisfying some sudden, deep, and admittedly selfish curiosity?

A nebulous question for another time, he decides, and heads towards Cullen and his log.

It's quiet and peaceful, with the gentle surf and chattering gulls—until Dorian's phone starts ringing in in his pocket. And it's been so long since he's used it as a _phone_ —rather than as a camera or a torchlight—that it takes a fair few moments for it to register that it's _his_ phone.

He turns to face away from Cullen, still several metres down the beach, as he pulls his phone from his pocket. It's his agent calling, who is the one person from the outside world that Dorian has truly needed to get in touch with over the last week; he has no idea how she's managed to get through the iron curtain of abysmal mobile coverage that surrounds Honnleath, but it doesn't matter.

"Mae? Damn, am I glad to hear from you…"

When Maeveris bids him a cheery goodbye ten minutes later, the log behind Dorian is empty, and that blue cardigan is nowhere to be seen.

The next morning, Dorian wakes up before the sun. He bundles up as best he can, though his thin sweater and leather jacket don't feel like quite enough. Apparently the middle of Cloudreach in Honnleath is much cooler than it is in Denerim. Margaret is up and working on the beginnings of breakfast, by the sounds coming from the direction of the kitchen as Dorian quietly makes his way to the front door. He's thankful for the clang of baking sheets to mask the sound of his boots descending the stairs—he'd rather not answer too many questions about why he's up and at it so bloody early. He opens and closes the front door as gingerly as he can, and heads for the beach, hoping to the Void and back that this Cullen fellow didn't decide to have a lie in this morning.

The walk to the shore is eerily quiet, misty and cold and damp. Everything is in shades of grey, no matter how rich the colour might be in the daylight, and it gives the village an entirely different atmosphere. It's all very moody and dramatic, and actually it suits the feeling of Dorian's novel much better. He makes a mental note to see more of Honnleath when it's like this, as he nears the beach.

As he'd hoped, Cullen's log is empty when Dorian reaches it. There's a small tide pool directly in front of it, with several small fish swimming lazily inside, and he realises that _this_ must be the source of the fascination with this particular spot. It puts a smile on Dorian's face, because there's something about the whole notion… it's unexpected. Surprising.

He doesn't want to intrude, so Dorian moves a little ways down the beach, to a gnarled driftwood log of his own. He settles down on it and hunches over against the crisp wind, hands shoved as far into his pockets as he can manage.

The waiting is hard, without something to occupy his time. At home, whenever he's found himself waiting for something or someone—which is often, a lot of his time is spent waiting for this meeting to start or that person to call—he would resort to his phone. Check his emails, his texts, the news; rinse and repeat. Not an option now, of course, so instead he sits and divides his attention between the street and a trio of gulls a stone's throw away.

Faint pink starts to bleed into the grey of the sky along the horizon and Dorian starts to wonder when this guy is supposed to show up. He sighs and shifts on his log, encouraging some blood flow back to his arse, and turns to look over his shoulder at the beach stretching out behind him. When he turns back around, there's movement in his periphery, on one of the boats moored in the harbour to his right and his eyes follow to track it.

He sees Cullen on the deck of the boat, already dressed in his cardigan. He seems to putter around for a few moments, then he disembarks onto the pier.

Dorian's stomach flips again in that odd and barely noticeable way, at the sight of him. And he really needs to extricate himself from this village, if this is what passes for a thrill to his subconscious now.

Cullen walks over towards the tide pool and sits on his log, seemingly entirely unaware of Dorian's presence a short distance away. He settles into the same position he'd been in the first time Dorian had seen him from afar, curled in on himself, arms crossed and hands gripped into the sleeves of the cardigan.

It's a wonder he hasn't managed to stretch them out completely, Dorian thinks, and he tries not to watch too intently.

Cullen stays exactly how he is for a while, staring into the tide pool as if hoping for some sort of divination to present itself. As the sun lifts higher and higher over the horizon, his attention drifts more and more frequently to the sunrise.

And Dorian starts to feel more and more awkward sitting on his own log, as though he's intruding. Because he _is_ , he admits to himself. What had seemed like such a clear and clever idea in the too-early hours of the morning now feels like a colossal mistake. Everything around them is so perfectly still and serene that if he were to try and make an exit now, it would definitely be noticeable. He considers, then, staying where he is and hoping that Cullen will finish whatever his business is with this tide pool and then retreat, to that boat or to the sea—Dorian isn't picky, at this point. But no. he _does_ genuinely want to speak with him, and if the local gossip is to be believed, he's not the easiest person to run into.

He turns his attention from Cullen watching the sky, to the sky itself, and it really is remarkable. The pale pink that had shown first has stretched outwards and grown a deeper and more vibrant shade, and it's brought streaks of orange and yellow along with it, making the low hanging clouds look like dip-dyed puffs of cotton.

"It's brilliant, isn't it?" Dorian says, on impulse. He'd rather have eased into this conversation, instead of announcing his presence so suddenly, but it's done and he's been heard.

Cullen startles visibly at the sound of Dorian's voice, jerking on his log and turning quickly to look at him. If he recognises him, Dorian can't be sure; his expression belies nothing. He looks at Dorian for a moment longer, then nods, looking back at the sunrise. "It is," he says quietly.

It's not an outright rejection, at least, with that reply tacked on at the end. Dorian clears his throat before pushing onward. "It must be some effect of the sea; I've never seen a sunrise so colourful elsewhere. Is it always like this?"

Again, Cullen leaves him hanging for a few moments before answering. "Most mornings. Except when it's too overcast."

Dorian nods even though Cullen can't see it. He wonders if those are the mornings Cullen might sleep in, but he suspects too that these early trips to the shore aren't really about catching the sunrise.

He looks around for something he can use to carry on talking about, and his eyes fall on the boat he'd seen Cullen step off of. "I noticed earlier that you came from that boat there, the one with the navy blue hull. It's beautiful; do you live on it?"

Cullen clears his throat and shakes his head, looking at Dorian. "No, I don't, not really—it's um, complicated…"

Dorian smiles quickly, as warmly as he can, hoping to smooth over the jagged edges of the awkwardness he's just created. Or exacerbated, if he's honest with himself. "Fair enough," he says. "Each of us is entitled to our mysteries in life, aren't we?"

He knows then that he's completely misread the situation, with that quip. It's far too 'on the surface' for something that clearly seems to go through Cullen much deeper than that. And when Cullen visibly disengages, his shoulders stiffening and his jaw tightening, Dorian can't blame him.

They sit in a strange sort of silence for a few minutes, the last words Dorian said ringing faintly in his ears as if the open air of the beach could hold an echo. Cullen moves finally, the first he's shifted since turning away from the sunrise the second time, and he stands, swiping at the backs of his legs.

"It was nice to meet you," he says as he starts to walk away.

Dorian stands after him quickly. "I didn't actually get your name—I’m Dorian," he says, smiling softly and holding out his hand. He almost feels awkward now, knowing Cullen's name before it's been offered to him, but he certainly hadn't asked the woman at the tea house for it.  

"Cullen." His tone is clipped and his handshake is quick, but he does at least return the smile before heading off across the beach.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [commanderruthernerd](http://commanderruthernerd.tumblr.com) aka my best bro for life made a really amazing mix to accompany this story. I've been listening to it basically nonstop since I started writing chapter three, and it fits the atmosphere so perfectly -- make sure to give it a listen, [here](http://8tracks.com/illburnthatbridge/red-sky-at-night)!

It's the start of the next week when Cullen sees the man from the beach again. _Dorian_ , he remembers, as he looks at him from across the road. He's sitting on one of the old stone benches in front of the chantry, one ankle propped up on his knee so that he can use his leg as a makeshift writing surface. He's scribbling in a notebook, and Cullen watches him long enough to see him pause and look around, tapping the end of his pen against his lips.

Cullen stands where he is, both hands on the handlebars of his bicycle. He'd been about to carry on to the grocers, and now he finds himself stuck in place. A little transfixed, truthfully. There's a draw pulling him across the road like a magnet, but his uncertainty works like an opposing force to maintain the distance. He wonders whether he ought to go over and say something, but in the next moment he wonders what he'd say and why he even feels he ought to say anything at all.

In the end he resolves to carry on and he walks his bike a few metres down the road, before impulse flashes through him again and he doesn't thwart it, this time.

He cuts across the cobblestones and backtracks until he comes to a stop in front of Dorian, his bike positioned between them.

"Hello."

Cullen half expects him to startle, because he probably would have were their positions reversed. He certainly had when Dorian had spoken to him out of nowhere on the beach the other day. Instead, Dorian looks up at him over the rim of his tortoiseshell glasses with an easy smile. A lock of hair has fallen forward, from where the rest is swept back, to curl over his forehead and he ushers it back into place, running one hand through his hair, pen still balanced between his fingers.

"Well," he says, a bit pointedly. He gives Cullen the briefest of once-overs, eyes dropping down and back up his frame in as long as it takes to blink. "Good morning."

"No wonder the locals are talking about you, if you keep sitting out here and taking notes about them like this," Cullen says with a bit of a crooked smile.

It's meant to be a joke, of course, but Dorian doesn't laugh. His face falls and he grimaces a little, before looking back down at his notebook.

"Ah. So they really do gossip about me, then."

Bugger it. Cullen sighs, and he's surprised he can manage even that much, for how deep his foot is lodged into his mouth.

"I figured they might," Dorian says, and then clears his throat before looking up at Cullen again. "I had just hoped to fly a bit more under the radar, that's all. Hard to get an honest impression, if everyone's watching you over their shoulder whenever you're nearby."

It feels almost like a thinly-veiled admonishment for being approached, and coupled with his failed attempt at an easy joke, Cullen is a breath away from making his escape. "Sorry, I, um— I saw you from across the road. I didn't mean to interrupt…"

Cullen's right hand moves to the back of his neck, in that tic he has that he is always unconscious of until it's already happening, and Dorian's eyes track the movement.

"Not at all, I'm glad for it. This isn't as interesting as it might seem." He lifts the notebook off his raised knee and waves it back and forth a little.

And it seems like an invitation to keep talking. Or at the very least, it isn't a demand that Cullen leave him alone.

"If they're not that interesting, why are you taking notes on them?"

Dorian laughs, something loud and sharp, and he leans back on the bench. "I'm not taking notes on anybody!" He says with exaggerated exasperation. "I'm working on ideas, for the story I'm writing."

"Oh. So you're… an author?"

"Such is my trade," Dorian says, a smile still on his lips.

Cullen chuckles a little, looking down at his bike as he shakes his head. "I'm rather surprised no one around here has guessed that yet."

"Guessed it?"

Cullen looks at Dorian through one eye, his head cocked to one side. "That's the new favourite pastime, apparently: guessing why you're in Honnleath." He gives him a wry smile. "We don't get many tourists around here."

Dorian hums, a bit sardonic. "Maybe if it wasn't so bloody difficult to get here, you'd get a fair few more," he says, and then he huffs. "Though I suspect it's the way it is for a reason. Tell me, what do the locals suspect me of being, then?"

"A spy," Cullen says, matter of fact, and Dorian laughs again. "Or a tax auditor."

"A tax auditor! What a horrible bogeyman I must seem."

Cullen laughs along with Dorian, and his stance eases a little. "They cling very desperately to the status quo, here."

"Evidently. Well, now I feel somewhat disappointed in myself that I'm nowhere so intimidating."

"If you were to let on that you were writing a story about Honnleath, I think you'd find yourself a bit of a celebrity."

"Oh, it's not about Honnleath, _per se_. It's about a bit of local folklore and I'm using the village as inspiration, but it's set in a fictitious place."

"Ah," Cullen says, nodding. He gives it a moment's thought, and finds himself completely baffled as to what this folktale might be. "I wasn't aware Honnleath was interesting enough for folklore…"

"Nonsense! It's actually a very interesting story. Surely you know it? The statue of a woman that walked away from the village of her own accord?"

Cullen scoffs, his nose wrinkling. "That story isn't true," he says, sceptical. "It's just something parents here tell their children to scare them into going to bed early."

Dorian chuckles under his breath and pulls off his glasses. He folds them and hooks them over the top of his shirt pocket. "Well, of course it isn't _true_ , in all likelihood. But it _is_ interesting."

Cullen shrugs. He's still sceptical, but he's the last person to know the first thing about writing a book, so he leaves it there. "You've seen the statue, then? Or what's left of it."

Both of Dorian's eyebrows raise at that, and he cocks his head. "The statue still exists? In everything I read about the folktale, there was never any mention that there's a _relic_ of it."

"Not the statue itself, but there is a base that people say belonged to it." He leaves out the fact that there's also rumours that someone built the base ages ago, to make the legend seem real. Dorian sounds excited, and he doesn't want to be a _total_ killjoy.

"Right." Dorian claps his notebook closed and pops up from the bench in one movement. "Take me to see it, will you? Assuming you're free."

Cullen thinks of the grocers. He's run out of a few staples, but it's not so dire that he can't go tomorrow. Beyond that, the idea of saying "sorry I can't because I need bread and eggs and milk," is more than a little mortifying.

"I'm free," he says instead.

He and Dorian set off down the road together, Cullen's bike between them, and for most of the walk the only audible sound is the chain clicking over the gears on the wheels. Remarkably, Cullen thinks, it doesn't feel as awkward as it probably ought to.

Cullen leads Dorian through the centre of the village. When they reach the pub, Cullen heads off the road and along the side of the building. Dorian visibly hesitates a moment, and Cullen turns to look at him, nodding his head towards the back of the pub. "It's this way," he tells him before he carries on, and after another moment, he hears Dorian's boots scuffing across the grass behind him.

They continue down the faintly-beaten path that winds past the hedgerow behind the pub, until they reach a small clearing in front of an old, worn house that no one has lived in for as long as Cullen's known it existed.

Dorian is standing a few feet behind him, hands on his hips, and he's taking in the surroundings with his mouth slightly agape.

"I had no idea this spot was here, that anything even lay behind those hedges, aside from all these trees."

Cullen scoffs, and walks his bike over to a stone bench on the other side of the clearing. "Probably for the best you weren’t skulking around behind the pub on your own," he says. "For your image, I mean."

Dorian laughs and follows after Cullen. "Maybe the big bad tax auditor has a fervent appreciation of nature, hm?"

Cullen leans his bike against the back of the bench and looks over at Dorian. He's dressed similarly to how he was when they first met—a leather jacket and jeans that were clearly not inexpensive, with plenty of rings on his fingers and necklaces visible through the open collar of his shirt. "You certainly look the part of someone who spends his time in the woods," he deadpans.

Dorian chuckles and looks down at his chest, rearranging his necklaces—probably for emphasis.

The light cutting through the tree cover glints along the silver chains, contrasting the darker tone of Dorian's skin, and Cullen can't help but stare like an overgrown, gangly magpie.

Dorian looks up after a moment, and catches him staring. Cullen averts his eyes quickly to the ground and clears his throat, moving away from the bench. "The base, it's, uh, over here…" he says, pointing.

The base is a large rectangle of grey stone, nestled into the grass, with two oblong, jagged ruts spaced across the centre of it. Dorian circles around to the other side of it, and he pulls his phone out of his jeans pocket to take a few pictures of it from different angles.

"I remember when we were kids, when we found out this was here, we all got proper scared that everything our parents had been telling us was true the whole time."

Dorian looks up from his phone with a half-smile. "I thought you said the story isn't true…"

Cullen shrugs, mimicking Dorian's smile. "I was much less cynical as a boy."

Dorian makes an amused sound under his breath, and takes out his notebook. He starts jotting things into it, so Cullen heads back to the stone bench and sits down.

"You know the story, I assume?" Dorian says, after a few minutes, walking over to the bench and sitting next to Cullen. He stretches his legs out, crossing them at the ankles, and props both elbows across the back of the bench, settled in so comfortably as if he'd sat on the thing a hundred times before.

Instinct makes Cullen seek out a little more distance, leaning forward, forearms resting on his knees. "I actually don't. I doubt anybody in Honnleath really does; everybody always just focuses on the statue."

"It's actually rather compelling," Dorian says over Cullen's shoulder. "I can tell it to you, if you've the time."

And if there's one thing that Cullen has, it's that, so he simply nods.

"Well, it goes that the statue actually used to be a young girl by the name of Shayle, of a distant noble house. She was trained as a soldier, and served as the bodyguard for a man named Wilhelm, from some far off someplace. Now, Wilhelm was said to have magical powers and all that, and there were whispers that he possessed some sort of sceptre, that he could channel his magic through and use to control poor Shayle. A control rod, if you will.

"Wilhelm arrived in Honnleath with his bodyguard and settled into a cottage on the outskirts of the village—this very one, presumably." Dorian makes a sweeping gesture to the house across the clearing. "He lived reclusively, keeping his bodyguard close and sending her out once a month or so, to do his bidding and whatnot while he stayed in the house, practicing his magic and being generally ominously threatening, I'm sure. And then, one morning, Wilhelm was found dead in his cellar, with a stone likeness of the girl a short distance from his body. Much of the townsfolk assumed Shayle had left—some say she fled, others say she was recalled home by her father; there was never any consensus, really—and that Wilhelm had had the statue commissioned in her memory. Others, less intrigued by such a _tragic_ story of what was sure to be unrequited love, believed Shayle killed Wilhelm upon seeing the commissioned statue—a young girl desperate to break free from her oppressive, and now a bit creepy, master.

"Whatever they believed, a few enterprising folks had searched for the sceptre, hoping to use it for their own gain no doubt, but it was nowhere to be found and the village quickly forgot about Wilhelm. The statue remained in the cellar of the cottage for years and years thereafter, until eventually the house was reclaimed decades later by Wilhelm's adult son, Mattias. Mattias had had no connection to Wilhelm, and so had no connection to the statue—likely just an oddity owned by his certifiably-odd father—and he moved it unceremoniously outside.

"Life carried on as usual, until suddenly Wilhelm's surviving family is said to be possessed. Namely, his young granddaughter, Amalia. She would wander through Honnleath, ranting and ranting about a control rod and the statue of the warrior girl. She would ask everyone she saw if they possessed the sceptre, insisting that it was hers and that she needed it back in order to free the woman trapped inside the stone. Several people even said that they saw Amalia, in her rage, set things on fire without any sort of accelerant, as if out of thin air and completely on impulse. Remember, her grandfather was said to have magical powers himself—that the talents carried down through his line seemed the only answer. There weren't any reports of _him_ torching shrubbery in the town square, however.

"Now, this behaviour deeply disturbed the poor townies, so naturally, they ignored Amalia and shunned her and her family. Their disregard of her plight angered whatever manner of spirit had possessed the girl, and one morning, the entire village found itself trapped behind an impenetrable barrier, held hostage in the cellar of Wilhelm's cottage. Even Mattias was there; the only soul left free was Amalia. And it stayed this way for days, weeks, on end, until a small band of soldiers wandered through Honnleath and somehow broke the curse to free the people of the village. When they all eventually emerged from Wilhelm's cottage, the statue that had stood outside of it was gone, as if it had simply just… walked off.

"Of course, they immediately took Amalia's cryptic ranting for truth, and attributed the curse to the statue and the poor girl named Shayle, turned to stone at the whim of the mad enchanter, Wilhelm. Nevermind that that none of them could confirm when the statue had actually gone missing, and that they were all trapped together without a single witness to what occurred outside the cellar. Inconvenient logic, that.

"Now comes the part that you know, the part told to children to scare them into going to bed at a decent hour. It's said that the statue comes back every night from the edges of the village to look for Wilhelm's old sceptre, the one true way to break the curse that befell her, and if she hears any children awake, she comes to them to possess them in service to her cause, like she did Amalia."

They sit quietly for a long stretch after Dorian finishes talking, Cullen finding himself nothing less than impressed by Dorian's knowledge of the folktale.

Eventually, Dorian clears his throat softly. "This might be the one part of the village without a set of spying eyes."

Cullen looks back over his shoulder with a huff, and quirks an eyebrow at him. "Don't be so certain of that," he says, leaning to rest his back against the bench. "I wasn't aware that story was documented enough to be known by anyone who didn't grow up here."

Dorian moves his arms off the back of the bench, crossing them over his chest. He shrugs, and Cullen feels it against his own arm. "I have a bit of a thing for research, for urban legends and myths and the like. The story hasn't travelled far outside of Honnleath, but it has travelled."

Silence falls over them again, and they sit side by side on the bench, close enough to touch but not really touching at all. Dorian's warmth cuts faintly through the leather jacket he wears and through the thick wool of Cullen's sweater, and it's a strange feeling. Something Cullen hasn't felt in… he isn't sure. Too long to remember. But it's not the length of time that renders him speechless; it's the realisation that it's a feeling not entirely unwanted that manages that.

When Dorian speaks next, his voice is quiet. Lower. "You walked away from me, the last time we spoke. The first time, I guess. I'm a little surprised you're still here, I have to say."

Cullen clears his throat to fill the space, because he's not sure what to say—he's surprised he is, too. His cheeks are warm, warmer than Dorian is beside his arm. This afternoon with Dorian is the most he's spoken to anyone since arriving in Honnleath. Since the psychiatry sessions he was made to go through at the end of his service, during the decommissioning process.

"It's been a long time since I've had to hold a conversation," Cullen says, finally. "Since I've wanted to."

Dorian makes a surprised sort of noise in his throat, and Cullen can see him nodding in his periphery.

"I suppose I'm a bit rusty at it," Cullen adds, when Dorian doesn't speak.

Still from the corner of his eye, Cullen sees Dorian turn his head to look at him. "You're not."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you haven't played Dragon Age: Oigins, the folktale Dorian tells is a heavily-modified version of the quest, [The Stone Prisoner](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/The_Stone_Prisoner), which takes place in Honnleath.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in case you missed it, [commanderruthernerd](http://commanderruthernerd.tumblr.com) has done an amazing mix to go with this story. you can listen to it [here](http://8tracks.com/illburnthatbridge/red-sky-at-night) and I highly recommend you do for Ultimate Feelings Optimisation™

Five days later and Dorian has hit the wall, creatively. Or, more aptly, flung himself against it with gusto.

He's spent the entirety of this dreary, cold Saturday doing everything imaginable, except the one thing he's meant to be doing: writing. Of course, 'everything' within the context of life in Honnleath doesn't entail much. He took his now-standard tea and scone in the dining room of the bed and breakfast, and then moved into the lounge to watch a grainy, disrupted news broadcast. He could barely get a grasp of what was being covered for how often the feed would cut out, but it was as much an affirmation that a world outside Honnleath still exists, as much as it was a distraction. He determined to get to work then and made an earnest attempt, setting himself up at the desk in his room with his laptop and a pot of tea—he's been doing a spectacular job of tricking himself into thinking he doesn't miss coffee—and… accomplished nothing beyond straining his eyes from staring at the screen too hard and too long.

It's dark by the time his stomach reminds him of how long it's been since breakfast. Faced with the prospect of yet another meal sat across from Margaret, he makes a half-hearted attempt at looking presentable and sets off for the pub in the village.

As he finishes his supper, he resolves to never eat another Yorkshire pudding for at least a decade once he's free of this place. It's something he would text to Felix, telling him he would be responsible for enforcing the rule, but he knows he can't, here. He doesn't even get the impulse to reach for his phone anymore. He ought to be impressed that it's only taken two weeks to break him of his deep connection to his phone, but it doesn't feel like an achievement.

It's hard to believe that he's been in Honnleath for only two weeks, instead of two years, and it's hard to forget that the only meaningful conversation he's had since leaving Denerim happened nearly a full week ago, with Cullen.

At least that encounter ended on a much better note than their first: Cullen didn't cut a hasty escape, and he even tolerated Dorian long enough to walk with him back to the bed and breakfast. As it turns out, the small white house with the rust brick roof belongs to him, and the first thing Dorian did upon reaching his room was crawl onto the bed and watch Cullen approach the house and disappear inside.

Maybe it's because Cullen is attractive and their last conversation felt so easy—all things considered, once Cullen relaxed a little—or maybe it's because he's really that desperate for interaction, but when Dorian spots him sitting at a table on the other side of the pub, he wants to approach him.

This kind of emotional navigation is so far outside of Dorian's depth. He wants to put on his most charming mask, to sit across from him and talk a while, but he doesn't know whether he ought to. Whether it would be welcomed, or whether it would just rush Cullen into leaving.

One pleasant conversation does not an acquaintance make.

So he stays where he is, nursing his second pint and then another after that.

Cullen gets up to leave halfway into Dorian's third beer. They make eye contact when he passes Dorian's table, and he gives him a nod and a quick smile. Of all the possible triggers, it's his smile that reminds Dorian that he was once in the military, according to the woman running the tea house. It's perfunctory, practised. Like pulling off a sharp salute without the slightest prompt because it's that engrained in you.

Dorian falters over whether it's acknowledgement or invitation, so he reciprocates a moment too late and Cullen carries on towards the door.

His hand's already closed around the handle when Dorian clears his throat and calls after him with his name. He opens the door but turns to look at Dorian, his expression questioning.

"Have a drink with me?"

Cullen hesitates, but he pushes the door closed in the end. He bypasses Dorian's table, knocking his knuckles once on the top of it as he goes, and heads to the bar. He leans heavily on the worn wood as he orders a new round, and Dorian can see his shoulders sag with a sigh. His hip cocks to the side, the same as it had back in the tea house, and Dorian follows the line of his back again, lingering on his ass. Dorian's body stirs a little as he pictures what Cullen might look like from behind, naked and stretched out on his stomach in Dorian's bed, and that's how he knows the beer's gotten to him. He shifts in his seat, crossing his legs loosely, and ushers the thoughts out of his mind as best he can as Cullen heads back from the bar, pints in hand.

He sets the paler of the two in front of Dorian before he sits down, sipping from his own dark stout as he settles in.

Cullen licks creamy foam left behind on his upper lip and Dorian looks away quickly; if Cullen noticed, he doesn't act like it. Instead, he immediately closes in on himself, hunching forward and crossing his arms on the table in front of his beer. His eyes fixate on whatever's going on in the top of his pint, and it reminds Dorian of the way he had stared so intently into the tide pool, that too-early morning on the beach.

When the silence stretches on between them, Dorian wonders whether he's being humoured right now. Whether Cullen would rather be on his way home than awkwardly pretending that the two of them have any reason to share a beer.

This was easy, on Monday. There had been no pretence then—just an idle conversation that spawned naturally into something a bit more. And now it feels as though it'd never happened, as though they've gone straight from the sunrise on the shore to here.

Maybe Cullen's a person easily taken by his moods, fine one minute and then decidedly not the next. Dorian can certainly relate, especially at the moment. When it happens to him at home, he has a host of panaceas to turn to—some healthy, most not—but in Honnleath, he has nothing and no one except himself and that's as intimidating as anything can be.

Rilienus enters his thoughts then, ushered in like a stopgap by Dorian's subconscious like he has been so many times before. He thinks of the last time they were together, a few days before leaving Denerim. They'd gone for a drink at a bar around the corner from Rilienus' flat, but left before either had finished; conversation has never been their strong suit, left to the wayside in the interest of more immediate needs. They fucked twice that night, and Dorian walked home in the lingering dark.

Cullen moves to take a drink, lifting his beer slowly to his lips and sipping deeply. The motion brings Dorian back, and he feels guilty for letting himself get so distracted. He wants to apologise, to crack this tension in half with an affable laugh and a warm smile, but he's paralysed.

Cullen sets his pint onto the table again with a soft thud and a heavy sigh. He glances at Dorian for the briefest of moments before straightening his back. His hands grip the edge of the table in the first move to stand up and Dorian panics.

Perhaps having another person in close proximity is reason enough.

"Are you lonely?" Dorian asks, his voice barely above a whisper. There are only three other people in the pub with them but it's not fear of them overhearing that makes him quiet.

Cullen is frozen in place, hands still braced on the table. He stares at Dorian with an even, unreadable expression but his gaze softens the tiniest bit, just at the corners of his eyes, after a moment.

It's enough of an encouragement for Dorian.

"Because I am. It goes against every instinct I have to allow myself to admit it, but I am. This is a hard place to be, despite its pretty trappings, and I can't make sense of any of it, let alone of myself _within_ it. It's madness that anyone chooses to live here, that no one ever seems to seek anything outside of it. I can't reach anyone on my phone, I can't even watch the bloody news to pretend like I'm still a participant of the world beyond this place."

Cullen still hasn't moved an inch, and he's still staring at Dorian. It's enough to make Dorian drop his eyes, needing to leave himself at least a little less exposed.

"Yes," Cullen says quietly, while Dorian's gaze is fixed on the nicks in the wood of the table.

Dorian looks up at him, somewhat shocked at the honesty. "Okay," is all he says on a heavy exhale, because what else can he do but acknowledge it?

After another moment, Cullen gets up from the table. He heads for the door, and Dorian's sure he's really fucked up now, if he's leaving after all of that. Then, after sweeping the door open, Cullen turns and meets Dorian's eye.

"C'mon." He nods towards the darkness outside the pub and takes a step towards it.

And Dorian follows, his fourth pint left untouched.

 

Cullen seems to hesitate for a moment, outside the pub, as if deciding whether to head left or right. Dorian's not sure what lays in either direction, but he follows after Cullen when he sets off again. He realises, as they near the lower edge of the village, that he's being led towards the shore. Cullen is a short distance ahead, both hands shoved into the front pockets of his jeans, the collar of his cardigan pulled up until it reaches his ears. Dorian knows what's about to happen—or, he thinks he does. Were this Denerim, were it someone other than Cullen. But here, with him? They could be going to stare moodily off into the inky black distance over the sea, just as likely.

Except, Cullen heads for the boat that Dorian's forgotten he owns. When he moves to step onto it, he turns over his shoulder to look at Dorian, and says, "It's closer than the house…" It sounds like half explanation, half apology.

Dorian just nods in answer, because he doesn't really require either.

He follows Cullen into the cabin of the boat, down the stairs from the deck. It's a small space, with a daybed built into one side and a tiny kitchenette built into the other. He only just finishes his quick turn to take it all in when Cullen is suddenly in front of him, very close. And his hands are very warm on Dorian's chilled skin, when they cup the sides of his face. And his lips are very soft when they press against his own.

Everything about Cullen is so tentative right now, that Dorian's afraid to reciprocate too eagerly for fear of scaring him off. He must hesitate too much because Cullen pulls away after only a few moments, and he doesn't lift his eyes from the floor.

"Sorry, I— that wasn't fair of me," he whispers, lowering his hands.

Dorian grips the front of Cullen's cardigan before he can take another step back, and closes the distance between them again. "Don't. It's okay. Don't apologise."

He kisses Cullen this time, keeping him close by his hold on his cardigan. Cullen kisses back, one hand slipping around to the small of Dorian's back, the other returning to cup his cheek. Still it's tender and not at all what Dorian is used to, but he can work with it. He gently traces the edge of Cullen's lower lip with his tongue and again Cullen is tentative, but he opens after a moment. He lets Dorian inside, and leans into it.

Maybe it's been a long time since Cullen's done this, for how he hesitates before every move, but it's clear he enjoys it. His fingers turn inwards and grip into Dorian, into the back of his jacket and at the back of his head, and when he exhales next, there's a low rumble threaded through it. Dorian's stomach clenches at the sound, at the warmth that blooms through him when he hears it.

He eases his hold on Cullen's cardigan and starts to work the big, wooden buttons, slipping his hands past the thick knit fabric once he has it open. He rests his hands at Cullen's waist for a moment, then slides them up his chest and over his shoulders, meaning to push the cardigan away.

Cullen grunts and takes one of Dorian's wrists. "Too cold," he mutters, the words formed against Dorian's lips.

Dorian wavers between an admonishment, telling him that it's his own fault for taking them to a boat of all places, and an innuendo, telling him that he'll warm him up, not to worry—but neither feel right and both feel insincere. So he leaves the cardigan where it is, gripping the sides of Cullen's soft, slubbed cotton henley instead.

Cullen breathes against his mouth again, then pulls away just long enough to tug at Dorian's jacket. "You should take this off, though."

Dorian huffs, but the corner of his mouth curls up all the same. "Oh, so you're not allowed to be cold, so you'll sacrifice me instead?"

Cullen's voice is low when he speaks, ragged and rough. "I can't touch as much of you, with it on."

A flawless argument, that. Dorian really can't mount a rebuttal.

He unzips the jacket and shrugs it off, and Cullen reaches to take it from him. He turns briefly to lay it across the railing by the foot of the stairs that lead up to the deck. It makes Dorian smile, the chivalry of not tossing it to the floor. When Cullen comes back to Dorian, he kisses him again, this time ushering him back towards to the daybed.

It's too dim to see much of anything, as he lays out on the stiff mattress—the only light in the cabin coming from whatever makes it through the two windows on either side of it. But he can feel. He feels the warmth of Cullen as he closes in, the weight of him as he settles on top of him, the ridge of his half-hard dick pressing against his own.

Dorian rocks his hips into it a little, more out of instinct than a need to rut. He's not that gone with it yet. Cullen leans down and kisses him again, still so gentle, but the way he rolls his hips downward is anything but.

It surprises Dorian, how much Cullen is kissing him. Random hook-ups and one night stands, in his experience, don't include this sort of thing. Who knows why, because there's few things Dorian enjoys more than a good, thorough, mutually-enjoyed kiss. But so often, the first—and sometimes only—rule is 'no kissing.' There's considerations associated with random new partners, of course, but that decidedly is not an issue for many. Maybe it's the intimacy. Maybe it feels too much like something real for people seeking nothing more than a less lonely means of getting off.

That's not what this feels like, though. This feels like a connection. Two people needing a kind of human interaction that counts for something more than half-hearted pleasantries and idle conversation.

One of Cullen's hands slips under the hem of Dorian's button-down shirt, over his hip at the waistband of his jeans and up his side as far as the well-fitted garment will allow. His hands are rough, jagged fingernails and calloused knuckles, and they send a shiver through Dorian. He returns the gesture, sliding a hand into the opening of Cullen's cardigan to the small of his back. He hikes the back of his henley up to reach heated skin and soft, fine hairs, and he pulls Cullen's hips down into him again.

Cullen's mouth moves to Dorian's jaw, to the hollow under his ear, to the side of his neck. He draws his hips back and when he rocks forward next, he drags his length up along Dorian's, a good and proper thrust, and it makes Dorian moan. Louder than he might've intended too, were it not so unexpected. Cullen seems to like the noise, rumbling under his breath and thrusting again, harder and slower. He kisses Dorian again, and by now, Dorian's expecting it to be rough. Desperate. Needful. But still it's gentle and soft, his tongue caressing rather than insistent.

Dorian moves his hand from the small of Cullen's back to his ass, sliding his hand into one of his jeans pockets. He grips hard through the thick fabric, and he thinks about fucking Cullen. He wonders whether anybody has before, and if they have, whether they did it properly. As well as he could.

Normally he'd have those thoughts aloud, whispered against Cullen's skin, just next to his ear, but it feels too fragile. As if the air around them and between them is brittle and on the cusp of breaking at one wrong move.

Cullen grinds into him again and then sets a rhythm, rocking back and forth slowly. And he's so quiet, no grunts or groans like Dorian's used to, no proclamations of how good Dorian feels. Instead he seems focused on chasing his orgasm and Dorian's content to help him along. He won't come from this, for his part—he hasn't been an easy touch since he stopped being a teenager. His dick is hard, but he needs more than this kind of friction. He doesn't mind, though. This has been more than enough of a balm for him for now; an orgasm is easy to come by, but intimacy and closeness less so.

When Cullen comes, it's quiet too. His eyebrows knit together, a soft gasp against Dorian's lips.

After a moment, after he's come back to himself, Cullen opens his eyes and looks at Dorian. It's expectant, silently asking what he needs, but Dorian doesn't press it.

He just shakes his head and leans up. "I'm fine," he whispers, kissing the corner of Cullen's mouth.

It hasn't really been that long for him, with that night with Rilienus happening only a couple of weeks ago. The thought makes him feel odd, somehow, as if there's a guilt lingering in the dark. There's no need to feel guilty or wrong about it, he knows, but still it's there. Persistent. And then he realises that he's just been comparing Cullen, and everything about what this was, to Rilienus. The guilt morphs into shame then, takes over. And Dorian feels like shit.

The wordless silence between him and Cullen is beginning to feel uncomfortable, but if there's one thing that Dorian is practised at, it's extracting himself from awkward, post-coital situations. He gives Cullen another quick kiss, and then slides out from beneath him.

Cullen sits up on the daybed, his hands clasped between his knees, his shoulders drawn inward. He watches as Dorian straightens his shirt, as he slips his jacket back on. He doesn't speak, but his expression says, "You don't have to leave."

 _Yes, I do_ , Dorian thinks in unspoken answer.

"I ought to be back, before Margaret locks me out for the night," he says instead, hooking a thumb behind him in the general direction of 'not here.' "I'm sure I'll run into you soon, as I stalk round the village, looking for tax infractions to take note of." He adds a warm, lopsided smile for effect.

Cullen only nods. "Okay."

He doesn't stand, and Dorian heads up the stairs, onto the boat deck and out into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this isn't the chapter that made the E rating or the sexytimes tags necessary, just fyi~
> 
> also massive thanks to everyone who's left comments so far. nothing works as motivation quite as well as feedback does ❤


	6. Chapter 6

After slinking back to the bed and breakfast with his tail between his legs and a deep pit of shame in his gut, Dorian barely leaves it again.

He takes the occasional walk around the immediate vicinity, a few boring laps back and forth in the road out front, when he needs to stretch his legs or his mind. But beyond that, he holes himself up in his room and writes. And writes and writes and writes—so much that he's nearly within grasping distance of the end of the first draft.

He's always been this way, with his craft. He faffs about and idles and procrastinates, barely getting any work done, until the right words strike him out of the blue. Then, once he's found his rhythm, he's capable of doing little else but writing. It goes against the golden rule of most authors: to just get words onto the page and sort out the mess later. Dorian's never handled messes well.

It's a couple of days shy of three weeks since his… encounter, with Cullen. Which means it's more than a month that he's been in Honnleath, and that he hadn't even realised it when that joyous milestone happened. A dull spark of guilt flares in his chest when he thinks of Cullen. With this much hindsight, he'd have handled the ending of things very differently but in his melancholy, ale-tinged state, he'd panicked. Not one of his finer moments, but then it's just another on top of an already sizeable stack.

He'd been writing at a good clip tonight, but now he's entirely distracted. He leans back in his chair, looking up at the ceiling of his room with his hands clasped behind his head. He closes his eyes and focuses on the blackness, seeking more and more of it behind his eyelids—it's an odd exercise, something he employs when his thoughts are too loud, but it's often effective in giving him the clarity of mind he needs.

When he opens his eyes again, he resettles in his seat and leans his elbows on the edge of the desk, hunching in close to his laptop to refocus his attention. And it works—for all of half a minute. After that, his attention is wandering again. It lands on his phone, sitting lifeless at the corner of the desk.

The sight of it sends him back to life in the city, to what it'd be like if this were a Thursday night in Denerim, instead of Honnleath. Needing a distraction, he'd text Rilienus—

No, not Rilienus. That's an impulse lodged deep in his hindbrain, and he really needs to rid himself of it. It's done enough damage.

If this were Denerim and not Honnleath, and assuming Cullen was there and _not_ grossly angry with him, Dorian would text him. Invite him over. Or out. Going out would also work, but staying in means…

Dorian sighs and runs his hands through his hair, pulling at it until the pain is enough to cut off that train of thought. He stands, his knees protesting the movement, and he paces back and forth a few times across what little open space there is in the room. Then he stops and twists at the waist, to the right and the left, right, left, right—then his eyes fall on the view outside the window near the foot of his bed and he freezes.

He can see Cullen's house, dim grey and barely visible in the falling dusk, but the lights are on in the lower floor.

He stares for a moment, a little transfixed, before shaking his head, turning his back to the window, and sitting down again. He cracks his knuckles and rests his fingers on the keyboard, ready to get back to work, to ignore these distractions, but the words don't come. He rereads the last sentences that he wrote, four, five, six times, and still finds himself stalled.

He lets out a frustrated groan and looks over his shoulder, at those three soft, warm lights on the charcoal horizon, before grabbing his jacket and leaving his room.

 

As he walked over the hills that stretch between the bed and breakfast and Cullen's house, Dorian tried to figure out what he was doing. What he wanted, what he was seeking. And now that he's standing outside Cullen's front door, he's still not sure.

First he tried to convince himself that he just wanted to say hello. No pretence. Just a simple, friendly check-in on the one person he's managed a real conversation with in this place. But even he couldn't deceive himself of that lie. People don't trek outside in the dusk just to pop by for a quick "hi, how are you doing?"

Not when nights like that one on Cullen's boat have happened between them, anyway.

He'll make amends, he tells himself as he works up the nerve to knock on Cullen's door. He'll apologise, try to explain himself, but not make any excuses. And if Cullen tells him to fuck off, he'll do just that.

It's convincing enough that he knocks. There's no answer after a few moments, so he knocks again but still, nothing. Which is what he deserves, he thinks, as he slowly backs away from the door and heads down the stairs of the front stoop.

He's on the second to last step when the door clicks softly open behind him.

"Dorian…?"

Dorian pauses and looks over his shoulder. Cullen's opened the door just enough that all Dorian can see is his head, backlit. It makes the edges of his loose blond curls glow.

"Yes," Dorian says, turning a quarter of the way to rest his back against the old, wrought iron railing on the stairs. "It's me."

"What… what are you doing here? How did you know I live here?"

"You mentioned it before, after the statue. When you walked with me back to the bed and breakfast."

"Ah."

"I'm just on my way. Sorry for the inter—"

"Do you want to come in?" Cullen asks quickly. He studies Dorian for a beat, then pulls the door open wider.

The invitation is unexpected enough that Dorian's not sure what to say. Perhaps the right thing to do is just say his apologies and leave, but he takes Cullen up on the offer either way.

Dorian crosses the threshold of the house and closes the door behind him. Up close, Dorian can see that Cullen's hair is decidedly mussed and he's dressed in loose flannel pants and a waffle-knit henley—which is entirely too little clothing for how _fucking cold_ it is in the house.

Cullen must be aware how ruffled his curls are, because he runs both hands through them a few times, and Dorian tries not to stare for how soft they look. Cullen shuffles over to the fireplace and kneels next to it.

"I was napping," he says, arranging several logs in a heap inside the fireplace. "Fire must've died out a while ago. Sorry."

"It's a good thing I came over, then," Dorian says, crossing his arms tightly over his chest. "You could've _died_." Cullen looks at him over his shoulder, and Dorian answers with a lopsided smile.

He has absolutely no idea where he stands, now that he's been invited inside after being so sure he was being ignored. But best to cover the awkward with levity—awkward can't flourish if you don't acknowledge it, he figures.

Cullen huffs a little under his breath and turns back to starting the fire.

"Well, it's about supper time," Dorian says. "So I'd ask you if you want to pop out for a bite, but I've eaten at that pub enough times to sate me for life and there's _literally_ nowhere else to go here, so…"

Cullen carries on, taking a poker off the stand beside the fireplace. He shifts the logs around a little, letting the fledgling sparks get more oxygen. "Are you waiting for me to offer to cook you dinner…?" he says eventually, peering into the fireplace.

It's not what Dorian had been getting at, but he'll work with it. "I wouldn't turn such an offer down, per se…"

Cullen scoffs and leans away from the growing fire. "Well, you'll be waiting a while, because I can't cook much more than toast, I'm afraid."

It seems they're on the same page, as far as ignoring the elephant in the room goes. That suits Dorian fine, even if he knows in the back of his mind that it isn't healthy or sustainable—but neither has so far been within the criteria of relationships, for him.

"Just so happens," Dorian says, "I'm quite talented in that area. I could probably pull us something together, with enough ingredients." He finishes it like a question, testing the waters.

Cullen nods and gives a quiet "okay." He leads Dorian towards the kitchen, the old floorboards creaking with each step they take. It's all very old and rustic, the house. The front room is small, barely enough room for the couch and the coffee table in front of the fireplace, and the walls are dotted with paintings of various washed out landscapes in mismatched frames. It's well-worn, but charming too. Dorian might even call it cosy, if it wasn't at least a thousand degrees below zero.

Cullen points to a basket of assorted vegetables on the countertop—plucked from his very own garden, he says, and the thought of Cullen tending to it makes Dorian smile. And he pulls a brown paper butcher's package from the refrigerator, setting it in front to the veg. Next, he opens the cupboard above the stove to reveal several different spices and herbs, all clearly untouched.

"I think I can pull together a stew with all this…" Dorian says when Cullen turns away from the cupboard, looking a little triumphant. "But we'll need one very crucial ingredient—it all hinges on this one thing, very dire, so on and so forth. Do you have a bottle of red wine? Or two; that would be best."

Cullen raises an eyebrow at Dorian, looking somewhat confused. "I have a lot of wine, actually. Seems to be the go-to gift when someone moves into town."

Dorian feigns insult, clapping a hand against his chest. " _I_ didn't get any wine," he says, then winks after a beat.

"Why do you need that much for the stew? Is it for the broth?"

Dorian nods, moving towards the vegetables to see what he has to work with. "Yes, exactly—but only a splash or two," he says, glancing back at Cullen with a wry smile. "The rest is for drinking."

Cullen chuckles and shakes his head a little. "Ahh. Of course it is—that sounds much more like you." Then he clears his throat sharply, eyes dropping to a point in the corner of the room, and he rubs at the back of his neck. "'It,' I meant. More like _it_."

Dorian hums, but gives Cullen a warm smile in the hopes it'll coax that hand of his back down. "That's quite alright—I deserved that one."

It's an opening, if Cullen wants to take it.

Instead he fixes Dorian with a curious look for a moment, then walks past the stove to a pantry cupboard. "You can take your jacket off if you like," he says, setting two bottles of red wine on the counter next to the stove and closing the pantry with his hip.

Dorian reaches for one of the bottles to inspect the label. He's expecting nothing too spectacular, because he's seen what counts for passable wine in this village, but is pleasantly surprised to see it's an Orlesian pinot noir—from the correct region of Orlais, no less. The other bottle looks to be from Antiva.

"I'll keep it on for now," he says, pretending to shiver visibly. It doesn't take much exaggeration; the fire is taking its blighted time in warming up the house.

Cullen nods, and heads out of the kitchen. Dorian follows his movement, wondering whether he's caused offense. He can hear the _creak, creak, creak_ of Cullen heading upstairs, followed by yet more creaking as he moves around on the second floor. The footsteps begin to track back downstairs and Dorian turns back to the counter where he's readying his ingredients.

He hears Cullen return to the kitchen. "Here," he says, and Dorian can sense that he's close behind him. "You can wear this if you like."

Dorian turns and sees Cullen holding out a knit sweater, in a thick, heathered charcoal grey yarn. He's looking at Dorian like a child who's found an oddly-shaped rock or a pretty shell, some treasure he's eager to share.

There's an odd instinct in him that tells Dorian to decline despite there being no good reason to. His instincts haven't been the most helpful to him so far, here, so he ignores them and reaches for the sweater with a small smile.

"Well, doesn't this look cosy," he says, as he shrugs out of his own waxed leather jacket. Cullen takes it from him and it's similar enough to that gesture he'd made on the boat that it makes something in Dorian's chest twinge with awkward familiarity. He tugs the sweater over his head so he doesn't have to see Cullen holding his jacket anymore.

The sweater is certainly warm, doing more to rid the cold from Dorian's body in these few seconds he's worn it than his own jacket had. And it smells good. Like cedar-tinged musk and clean laundry all at once. Like Cullen. _Good_.

Cullen's headed off down the hall, and he's less one jacket when he returns. "You must have a whole collection of these sweaters, hmm?" Dorian says, focusing again on the stew. He's winging a recipe he tried once, from a cookbook. One of the many in his collection, all richly-hued photographs and buzzword-filled blurbs. He doesn't remember every stipulation of the recipe but he knows enough cooking basics to at least look as though this is an old favourite staple.

"Mum sends one every year." Cullen takes two glasses out of a cupboard and sets them next to the wine bottles. "At least one. Which wine should I pour?"

"The Orlesian one. That makes more sense, your mother sending them. I had wondered at first if you've devoted your life to knitting, hence the lack of cooking skills. But I suppose that's really due to living off military rations most of your adulthood. Relying on a mess hall is bound to render one a bit useless in the kitchen."

Cullen pauses before pouring the second glass of wine. Dorian can feel his eyes on him but he's working on slicing some homegrown carrots so he doesn't look up. "How did you know?"

Dorian panics a little, at the discordance between what he had thought was a harmless comment and Cullen's reaction. What could he have possibly said wrong this time?

He's genuinely perplexed until he remembers that it hadn't been Cullen to tell him about his military career. Dorian clears his throat as he slips a large handful of carrot pieces into the pot on the stove. "The lady at the tea house mentioned it, that day you were there the same time as I was," he says, smiling at Cullen briefly. "I'd forgotten the detail, actually, until just now."

Cullen nods as Dorian explains. He pours the second glass of wine and it sends a quick relief through Dorian. "I prefer not to talk about it."

"Absolutely," Dorian says without missing a beat, in his most affable, easy tone. "My fault for bringing it up."

Cullen punctuates the topic with a sip of his wine, then slides the other glass across the counter towards Dorian. "This is surprisingly good."

Dorian reaches for the glass with his free hand and lifts it to sniff the bouquet. "Because you're not a fan of wine or because—"

"Because it was a gift from someone that lives _here_ ," Cullen interjects, the corner of his mouth hitched up.

Dorian chuckles through his nose as he drinks. "Truly an accomplishment for the people." 


	7. Chapter 7

Dorian continues to prepare the stew, while Cullen quietly leans against the counter and keeps their wine glasses full. When the stew is ready and Dorian turns away from the stove with two full bowls, he belatedly realises that Cullen seems to be missing a dining area of any sort. Cullen takes a bowl and his wine, and leads Dorian to the front room, settling in on the couch.

It makes Dorian smile. He almost remarks how it's very _bachelor pad-esque_ , but fear of sticking a second foot in his mouth keeps him quiet. He sits next to Cullen, and they eat, bowls balanced on their knees.

The fire is plenty warm now, filling the room with a pleasant glow. A bit of pink has crept into Cullen's cheeks, either from the fire or the wine, and his mood is light and good humoured—which is definitely from the wine.

Cullen's smiling at him after cracking a joke, some silly pun that made Dorian groan before he laughed, and Dorian finds himself entirely transfixed by it.

"I'm sorry."

The words leave his mouth of their own accord. Had he his wits about him, he would have allowed for more of a lead-in, something less sudden.

Curse this handsome bastard.

One of Cullen's eyebrows quirks and he tilts his head slightly, seemingly confused. "I'm sorry?"

Dorian clears his throat and shifts on the couch, setting his empty bowl on the coffee table and turning in towards Cullen. He finishes the wine in his glass too, in preparation. "For the other night," he says, as Cullen sets aside his own bowl. "Ending it as I did."

"Oh," is all Cullen says. He takes a drink of wine, his eyes cast towards the fireplace. He lowers his glass after a sip and then he seems to think better, before tipping it up again to drink the last of it. "I was thinking I ought to apologise to you."

"To me? Whatever for? I wasn't the one left behind so abruptly on a boat after… well. You know."

Cullen huffs. "That is a fair point…" he smirks a little, and Dorian's stomach flips in return. "But I felt as though… as though I'd 'talked' you into it. I felt… I don't know." He groans and runs a hand through his hair, tiling his head down. "I'm not very good at this sort of thing."

Dorian smiles softly, even if Cullen doesn't see it. "Who is? But Maker, Cullen… now I feel worse for letting you think any of that might be true for even a second. I wanted to be there… to be with you."

Cullen stays hunched forward for a few moments longer, before looking up at Dorian. "You did?"

"I wouldn't have followed you all the way back to a freezing cold boat, otherwise. I just…" Dorian sighs and scratches above his eyebrow with the edge of his thumbnail, trying to decide exactly how much of himself he wants to expose to Cullen right now. "I panicked."

It makes him feel like a coward but Cullen seems to understand, if the gentle look he's giving him is any indication. It makes Dorian's chest tighten in a way that's entirely unfamiliar. Foreign. Is it because of Cullen, or is it because of some misplaced need for affection that he's projecting onto Cullen simply because he's here and he's close and his eyes are soft? As the silence carries on between them, Dorian misses how easy it would be with someone like Rilienus, when it doesn't matter what's said because they don't say anything of substance—but it's fleeting. He doesn't miss that, not really. He knows that now he would take whatever this is with Cullen over that, even if it's awkward, even though he has no idea how to navigate his way through it.

He's not sure what's expected of him here, if Cullen's even leaving it all up to him. But he still looks soft, warm, inviting, with his mussed hair and what are most likely his pyjamas, and Dorian finds himself leaning in towards Cullen, bracing a hand on the couch between them so he can get close enough to kiss him.

Cullen kisses back without missing a beat, bringing a hand to rest at the back of Dorian's neck. He's not shy about it, pulling Dorian closer and leaning into him at the same time, then tilting his head to kiss Dorian deeper. Dorian exhales with relief, letting himself melt into Cullen more, and flicks his tongue at the edge of Cullen's lower lip. Cullen answers with a rough hum and opens his mouth, welcoming Dorian in. his grip tightens at the back of Dorian's neck when their tongues meet and he pulls him closer again, enough that Dorian has to brace himself with his other hand, high up on Cullen's thigh. He feels muscle tighten under his hand and he squeezes his fingers into the inner seam of Cullen's soft flannel pants, and it pulls a low, gravelled noise from him.

Before long, Dorian's half-hard, Cullen's moaning against his lips, and they're both panting. It feels as though there's something just under the surface within them—maybe uncertainty, maybe restraint. Like each wants something but doesn't know how to, or if he even should, ask for it. They're both overthinking this, Dorian knows.

So he pushes past it, and pulls away. Cullen looks shocked for a moment, until Dorian moves off the couch and between his knees. He pushes Cullen's legs a bit further apart and runs his hands up his thighs, then carries on up his torso until he reaches his shoulders. He pushes him back into the couch and leans in for another kiss, and Cullen strains forward to meet his lips. It's enough of an encouragement for Dorian to follow through, to settle back on his haunches and begin tugging at the waistband of Cullen's pants.

This is the part Dorian knows; the part he's comfortable with. The before, the after, and everything else besides—he is hopeless with, and that will probably be too much for someone as good as Cullen to bear. But at least in this, it can be easy.

"Can I?" Dorian asks, looking up from his place between Cullen's thighs.

Cullen nods and inhales sharply through his nose, leaning back and lifting his hips enough for Dorian to slip his pants down. He doesn't pull them far, just enough to free Cullen. He's still a little soft so Dorian strokes him a few times before taking him into his mouth. He starts slow, gently running his tongue around the head, and Cullen groans under his breath. It's followed by a moan, eager but quiet, when Dorian sinks further down. Dorian takes him in as far as he can, keeping a hand wrapped around the base of him, rubbing his thumb in small circles across the vein on the underside of his cock. Cullen is heavy on his tongue and he grows hard quickly, filling Dorian's mouth in a way he'd been missing. Cullen brings a hand to the top of Dorian's head and curls his fingers into his hair; he's tentative about it still and Dorian hums, sucking Cullen a little harder to show it's okay, and then his grip tightens.

Dorian's nose connects with the fabric of Cullen's shirt with every downstroke, and while it's soft and it smells clean, he'd rather be closer to skin, so he pushes the hem of the shirt up and out of his way. Cullen takes it a step further and tugs his shirt off, tossing it away and falling back into the couch with a low groan. Dorian's own cock throbs at the musky scent of Cullen's lower stomach, and the brush of coarse hair against the tip of his nose, and he groans a little too.

"D-Dorian— Maker, Dorian." Cullen barely manages the words, biting them out between panting breaths. He spreads his legs wider, shifting his hips closer to Dorian, silently asking for more. Dorian obliges and takes Cullen a little deeper, working him with his tongue.

He wants to make Cullen feel good enough to come, to overwrite the last time, to prove to himself that he can be better than he was. He groans again, drawing it out into a long, low hum, hollowing his cheeks to suck Cullen harder, wordlessly encouraging him to finally let go—

And he does, hunching forward over Dorian with a moan as he comes, and Dorian takes it all.

Relishes it.

After, Dorian sets back on his heels. His eyes meet Cullen's and they share a quiet chuckle as Cullen tugs his pants up. Dorian leans to kiss him and then moves to sit next to him on the couch again, but in one motion, Cullen's rolled him over so he's on his back. Cullen braces himself with one hand, hovering over Dorian and looking down at him with a smirk.

"This is very out of character for me, I have to say," he says, before leaning down to kiss the corner of Dorian's mouth. He uses his knee to nudge Dorian's legs apart.

Dorian can feel something dangle against his chest, something metal, like a pendant on a necklace. He hadn't noticed Cullen wearing one, but he hadn't taken the time to look at his bare chest, either. Cullen kisses him full-on next, sucking on Dorian's lower lip before sweeping his tongue into his mouth. His free hand moves between them and works on the button of Dorian's jeans, getting them open and pushing them away hastily.

Cullen takes Dorian in hand and he moans into Cullen's mouth at the touch. His hand is rough at first, almost too much, but then he runs his thumb over the tip and works Dorian with his own precum, and it's better. Good. Really good. Enough to make Dorian moan again and arch up into Cullen as best he can without any leverage against the couch. He clasps one hand on Cullen's shoulder and curses under his breath before Cullen takes his mouth again in a messy kiss. Dorian is well primed by now and Cullen's grip is perfect, his strokes exactly the speed Dorian uses on himself, and it's not long before he's ready to come.

"Cullen," he warns, speaking the name against the owner's lips. He manages at the last moment to pull his shirt and the borrowed sweater up and out of the way, before he comes with a gasp that turns into a groan. His cum streaks across the bottom of his stomach, Cullen slowing his hand to work him through it, his lips pressed against Dorian's jaw.

As Dorian comes down with a heavy, satisfied sigh, Cullen tugs the discarded shirt out from under his shoulder and uses it to clean up.

When he's done, he balls the shirt up and sits back. "You can stay," he says, as Dorian sits up next to him. "Stay the night, I mean. I know it's not that late, but it's cold outside and… well. You can. If you like."

Dorian considers the offer long enough for it to be tempting, but then the overthinking takes hold again and he freezes. Instantly everything inside him feels tight and strained. He clears his throat and looks away, straightening his shirt and buttoning his jeans, and trying to ignore the way the taste of Cullen lingers. He can feel the panic taking root and blooming up through his core, settling in hot in his chest. What before had felt encouraging, the tightening in his chest at the thought of being with Cullen—and actually _with_ , beyond a few shared orgasms—now scares him. It's so nebulous and undefined, so far outside his scope of experience. It's everything he's been told and shown that he can't have and shouldn't want, and—

He can't. Maybe eventually, but definitely not now.

"I was just in the midst of finishing a chapter, before I wandered over," he says. It isn't a lie, but it's about to become one. "And I really ought to see it finished, before the inspiration leaves me completely. I might work through the night, actually, and just sleep in the morning."

Dorian looks up, and Cullen nods when their eyes meet. "That's fine," he says, his tone even. It should be a reassurance that he doesn't sound hurt, as he had that night on the boat, but instead Dorian can't tell whether the sentiment is genuine, or a platitude. "You must be getting close to finishing the story, by now?"

"Not as close as I'd like," he says with a small smile, standing from the couch. "But I'll make my agent's deadline, if I keep my pace."

Cullen gets up after him. He opens his mouth to say something, and then pauses when he sees Dorian start to pull off the charcoal sweater. "No, keep it," he says, shaking his head. "For the walk back."

Dorian lets go of the hem of the sweater, feeling awkward. "Is that just an excuse to see me again?" He asks with a wink, to serve as a counterbalance. "So that I can return it to you?"

"It can be," Cullen answers, giving Dorian half a smile. "If you want it to be."

They leave it at that, with a last brief kiss and Cullen handing Dorian his jacket. Dorian cuts across the black expanse towards the bed and breakfast. He bypasses his desk and his open laptop when he reaches his room, and curls up in his bed with his nose buried in an arm of the sweater, breathing it in.

Next time, he'll try to do better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> originally, this and chapter 6 were going to be all the same chapter, and then I decided to instead to split it up and write chapter 7 from Cullen's POV. obviously that didn't exactly happen! I wasn't quite finished with Dorian's thought process, I realised, so we stuck with Dorian a bit longer. we'll get Cullen's perspective next though, promise! he has a lot of thoughts.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for vaguely-alluded-to Trespasser spoilers!

It's a funny thing, but the sound of water gently lapping at the hull of his boat is one of the most comforting sounds Cullen has come across yet. And in the middle of the night like this, when even the gulls have taken a rest, it's the only thing he can hear. He lies flat on his back on the deck, near the bow, with his arms crossed behind his head and his legs crossed at the ankle, and he does nothing but stare at the black sky fleabitten with stars and listen to the sea until the first signs of dawn.

It's always cold, out on the water, but he wants it that way. Needs it that way. And his cardigan keeps out the worst of the chill, besides.

He doesn't remember when or why he started, and he's lost count of the number of times he's done this since returning to Honnleath. When the insomnia takes hold and the dark silence of his house becomes too oppressive, or when the nightmares come one after the other, he walks down to the shore and his boat.

It never ceases to ground him, to remind him that he's not back in Kirkwall, or Kinloch. That this is where he is now; that he'll never be back in those hellish places; that this is his reality.

He'd seen a psychiatrist, because it was a requirement of his decommission. He'd attended all his appointments and followed the medication schedule that had been prescribed to him, because as hard as it was to do things like leave the house and pay attention to the time of day, he regarded the process as a duty. Still the nightmares and the disassociations plagued him, and when he left Denerim, he flushed the pills down the toilet.

And living here, in Honnleath, has really been the best improvement so far. Of course, most nights are interrupted by either insomnia or nightmares, but the quiet stillness of the village and the proximity to the sea is exactly what was needed, he thinks. The rest will come together on the heels of distance and time, which is more than he'd have felt confident of while still in Denerim.

It's almost comforting that one of the most pressing issues in his life at the moment is a handsome interloping author giving him mixed signals. The thought draws a chuckle out of him, quiet against the sound of the water.

He doesn't know exactly what his relationship with Dorian is. It isn't worth putting a lot of thought into, as he sees it, because Dorian's only in Honnleath temporarily. He enjoys Dorian's company for a few reasons, not least because he doesn't ask questions. Even when he stumbled over the mention of Cullen's former service, he let it lie. Because as improved as Cullen feels he's become, he isn't in a place to discuss things any more than he's already had to. So, it is what it is. What will be, will be. Plus all those other clichés that give him the freedom to not think it all over too hard.

After another half hour or so, Cullen decides to head home for the rest of the night. He could settle into the boat's cabin, but it's cold enough that he can see his breath so home it is. The damp chill in the air has settled into his joints, and his back and his knees protest as he stands. It's not until he's reached the edge of the beach the stiffness works itself out of his gait.

The wind is gaining strength with each step, biting and icy against his cheek and the part of his neck not protected by the collar of his cardigan. He decides to cut through the village, using the buildings as a buffer.

Nearing the pub, Cullen sees a tall, lithe figure outside of it, leaning against the side of it with his back to the road. Where someone else might be inclined to approach and see if the person is alright, Cullen continues walking; it's probably just a case of too many pints for a Wednesday night, and that isn't his business.

Until he hears the familiar timbre of Dorian's voice, over his shoulder now that he's made it past the pub.

Cullen turns to see Dorian pushing off the wall and stumbling towards the back of the building. If he's headed for home, he's headed in very much the wrong direction.

"Dorian!" Cullen calls to him as he jogs over. Dorian just shakes his head and waves Cullen off, continuing onwards. When he catches up, he puts a hand on Dorian's arm, trying to hold him in place. "Hey," he says, his voice pitched low.

Dorian stops and looks first at Cullen's hand on his arm, then at Cullen. His eyes are bleary and bloodshot, and the skin underneath them is dark and grey. It's clear he's underslept and drunk, and Cullen wonders too whether he's been crying.

"If you're headed for the bed and breakfast," Cullen says, "it's not this way."

Dorian shakes his head and sighs. "I don't _want_ to go back there. I _want_ to go find that blighted statue again."

"The statue? In your st—" Cullen pauses, clears his throat. "Whatever for, at this hour?"

"That's between me and the statue, really, but if you must know—" Dorian hiccoughs and wobbles on his feet a little, and Cullen takes a strong hold of his arm. Dorian sighs again. He pulls away from Cullen's grip and leans his back against the wall of the pub. "If you'd please just let me go, rather than laugh at my situation. I'd like to see the blighted reason I've missed the passing of my father and inform it that it it's the reason that I'm to miss the service too."

"Your father… oh…" Cullen swallows thickly, not sure what to say. The news demands condolences, of course, but there was an undercurrent of something bitter in Dorian's tone that gives him pause.

"Or perhaps I ought to thank the fucking thing, I don't know. At least now I have reason not to go to the funeral and force myself to pretend like things between us weren't utterly disastrous."

Cullen's mouth screws into a crooked frown. This is swiftly turning into a conversation not to be had against the wall of a pub at three in the morning, and the last thing Dorian needs right now is to be left alone.

"Oh, ignore me. I shouldn't unleash the hellscape that was _that_ relationship on y—"

"Do you want to talk?" Cullen says, interrupting Dorian. "At my house. Not out here."

Dorian's mouth snaps shut and he looks at Cullen for a moment. "That feels like an imposition."

Cullen huffs and gives Dorian a half-smile. "It isn't, since I'm offering."

Dorian stays where he is for a few moments, his head bent forward and his eyes cast down. He lets out a quiet exhale, then pushes off the wall of the pub, wavering the slightest bit. "Alright. Margaret's locked up the bed and breakfast by this hour anyway," he says, moving past Cullen towards the road that leads up the hill behind the village.

 

Dorian settles in on Cullen's couch as though he's been there a hundred times before, instead of just the once, with his legs tucked up and the blanket off the back of the couch draped across him. Cullen sits next to him and Dorian arranges the blanket over his legs as well, with a pat on the thigh.

"I'll tell you right now," Dorian starts, "you can save your condolences. The man wouldn't have wanted, nor deserved, them."

"Okay," Cullen says.

"And I don't much want to go into detail with exactly why he doesn't deserve them, either. He hated me, despised me, everything about me and what it all meant for him. He couldn’t even blame it on his good and common sense being clouded by backwards religious upbringing, as so many do. No, he hated pure and all of his own accord. How I burst forth from such a bigoted monster, I don't think I'll ever understand."

And now Cullen doesn't say anything at all, because what he could he say that would be appropriate? If Dorian doesn't want his condolences, he likely won't want his apologies, either.

Dorian tosses his head to the side slightly and runs the tips of his fingers on one hand through the shorn hair at the side of his head. "It was mortifying, the way I found out, too. My mother couldn't get hold of me, naturally, thanks to the abysmal mobile coverage here. She ended up calling Rilienus of all people, and who knows how she even found _him_ , but I hope it was something as tame as Facebook. I expect she went to Felix first, but like the guardian angel he is, he'd never have given her any sort of answer. Anyway, Rilienus pointed her towards Honnleath, and she looked up the bed and breakfast. Margaret knocked on my door around seven to let me know there was a call waiting for me. At least Rilienus probably won't remember the incident to want to talk about it whenever I see him next. My mother, however… she'll no doubt lord it over me for time immemorial."

Dorian pauses, crossing his arms over his chest. "Or maybe she won't… my father certainly would have if he'd been made to suss my whereabouts from a man I occasionally sleep with. I've really no idea what my mother is like, outside of his influence. Maybe she's perfectly lovely, if clearly spineless."

Cullen's not sure who Felix or Rilienus are; they're the first names he heard Dorian use of those he knows outside Honnleath. His brain stumbles over the part about sleeping with the latter all the same, though.

"Maybe she will be," he says. "Given the chance to get to know you, on your own terms."

Dorian huffs, and it sounds a little rueful. "Perhaps someday I'll feel more like giving the notion some thought, but for right now…"

He sighs. It feels like there's an apology coming, for taking up Cullen's time or making him listen to all of this, so Cullen heads it off.

"Will you really miss your father's service?"

Dorian shrugs. "Yes. I'm stuck here for one thing, but even if I cared to bother making the trip back, I wouldn't."

"It's odd to me, for one to be so detached from one's family. Obviously, you're not without reason, and I would never pretend to understand where you're coming from, but… from my own experience. When my father died…"

It's a topic he hasn't touched since his third session with Doctor Warrington. Were it anyone else sitting next to him like this, with their knee pressing into his thigh as they bared a part of themselves, he would have let it stay in that birch-covered office. But it feels as though it's okay to bring up, here; like it's the right time. A lens through which he can relate—or not, depending how one looks at it—to Dorian's situation.

Dorian turns to look at Cullen, and his expression is sad. Tired. He must feel it too, because he shifts and leans into Cullen's side, head resting on Cullen's shoulder. "I'd like to hear about it," he says eventually, his voice quiet and thin. "If you're okay with that, I mean."

Cullen nods, though Dorian can't see it, and he lifts his arms to rest around Dorian's shoulder. "It was while I was deployed, in Kirkwall. I found out after… too late. I still don't know what happened. My mom said she called and called, but I never heard about it. It was a bad time, right in the thick of things, I don't know… anyway, she wrote a letter, and that came but it had been weeks by that point, and…" he pauses for a deep breath. He looks down and sees Dorian fiddling with the raw edge of the blanket, folding it in on itself and around his fingers.

"But you'd have gone, if you could?" Dorian asks after a while, when it's clear Cullen has nothing else to say.

"Y-yeah." Cullen's voice breaks on the word, with the way it has to fight to get past this throat. "I would've."

"I'm very torn. Or perhaps conflicted is the better word, because it's not really a question of decision, but more of how it all makes me feel." Dorian tucks himself a little closer into Cullen's side. "I'm distraught that I feel sad over the loss of him; I shouldn't feel sad at all, for how he treated me. I should feel relieved… and maybe even freed, I'm not sure. But then, I'm also horrified with myself that that's how I think I should feel. If that makes any sense."

"It seems natural to me," Cullen says. "To feel relieved. Like the end of a conflict, even if it was more removed recently."

"I suppose. There certainly was conflict…" Dorian is quiet for a while, until a yawn takes him. "I guess I'm caught between forgiving the man because he's died, and trying not to care about it at all—but clearly I _do_ care, even somewhat, because look at me. I'm a wreck." He chuckles then, but it's hollow. Bitter.

Cullen wishes he were better at this sort of connection. He can't relate to Dorian's situation, beyond a standard sort of sympathy, and it leaves him at a loss for words. Is it better to say something even though it may be the wrong thing, or is it better to say nothing at all?"

Before long, the rhythm of Dorian's breathing has slowed. Cullen shifts and sees his eyes are closed. He briefly considers letting him sleep on the couch, but the selfish part of him is louder. He slips out from under Dorian and then bends to help him up, coaxing him awake.

Dorian huffs and nods, though his eyes stay closed as Cullen leads him upstairs. Dorian takes to the bed like a magnet, and manages to kick off his boots and jeans before awkwardly crawling under the bedding. Cullen follows suit, slipping out of his jeans and his cardigan, and settles in the bed. Dorian clings to him immediately; he shuffles over to press against his side, one arm draped over Cullen's stomach, head resting on his chest.

 

Cullen wakes to the feeling of something dancing lightly across his skin, in the expanse left bare by the collar of his V-neck shirt. He looks down, squinting through the haze in his vision, and realises that it's Dorian's fingers he feels.

He's fiddling with the pendant of Cullen's necklace, turning it over and feeling the design on the front of it.

It's an aged silver pendant, made to look like an old wax seal, with thick, uneven edges and a raised image of a lion's head. Cullen often does the same thing, rubbing it and pressing it into the pads of his fingers.

He takes a deep breath as the sleep finally leaves him, and Dorian's hand stills. He tilts his head up, lifting off Cullen's chest, and he smiles softly.

"Sorry to have woken you…"

Cullen shakes his head and looks out the window. The sun is up and probably has been for a while. "This is a real lie-in, for me…"

"I was just admiring your necklace," Dorian says, patting the pendant against Cullen's chest. "I'd noticed it before, but had been a little distracted…" He chuckles under his breath, before turning his head in to press a kiss through the thin cotton of Cullen's t-shirt. "It's lovely."

"It was a gift from my family, when I moved out here. There's a whole sort of symbolism behind it… came with a little card about it all and everything."

"Oh? And what does it symbolise?" Dorian draws up on to one elbow and turns to face Cullen.

Cullen huffs and reaches for the pendant, looking at it. Rosie had actually explained it to him in great detail, tearing up towards the end and all, the sensitive soul that she is. "Courage, mostly. I was… not well, before coming to Honnleath, and this was meant to be a talisman of sorts, and—"

"I understand," Dorian says, smiling. "Say no more."

Cullen returns the smile and is taken with the urge to kiss Dorian, so he leans up to close the distance between them.

And Dorian claps his hand over his mouth.

"Maker, are you serious? I must have the most atrocious breath right now," he says from behind his hand. "As much as I'd like to… do that."

Cullen feigns annoyance, rolling his eyes with exaggeration, and then kisses the back of Dorian's hand instead. Dorian laughs, muffled.

" I don't have a spare toothbrush, but you're welcome to mine, if you want." Cullen pulls himself up to sitting, and Dorian follows suit, stretching as Cullen speaks.

"Normally I might refuse out of some odd sense of propriety, but I do want to kiss you later so, yes, thank you. I will."

They ease out of bed, Cullen sliding yesterday's jeans on and Dorian gathering his up in his arms. He steals a quick peck of Cullen's cheek before heading for the bathroom next door.

Cullen changes his shirt and heads downstairs. He starts a pot of coffee while he hears Dorian running the shower overhead, and makes several pieces of toast. He'd rather given Dorian a proper breakfast, after the night he's had, but it's been a while since he's been to the grocers and he's desperately out of eggs and… a lot of other things.

He hears Dorian's loud, delighted moan as he descends the stairs. "Where in the Void did you find coffee in this blighted village?" he exclaims as he moves into the kitchen, looking entirely refreshed.

"Nowhere," Cullen says, turning to look at Dorian with a smirk. "My brother ships it in to me a few times a year. You can find it at the grocers now and then, but Roland rarely ever restocks it, so getting it by mail is the only reliable source I know of."

He pours Dorian a mug, and points to the milk and sugar on the counter. Dorian simply shakes his head and reaches for the mug, taking a long sip.

"I've missed this more than the internet," Dorian says, chuckling to himself before drinking again.

Cullen scoffs and nudges Dorian with his elbow before turning back to the counter to finish off the toast. "If I'd know I'd needed to use coffee to convince you to stay the night…" he says, and Dorian smacks him on the shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the slight delay! I've been pretty drained mentally lately, thanks to work, so writing was not coming super easily to me. I ended up writing the bulk of this chapter by hand, so there's probably bound to be some typos -- feel free to point them out if you find them!
> 
> there won't be an update next week; I'm going out of town this weekend, and weekends are when I get the majority of a chapter written. but I'll do my best to get chapter 9 up as soon as I can after I'm home :)
> 
> (also is this seriously at chapter 9 already where has the time gooone...)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, thank you so much for all your comments. I'm terrible at replying because I tend to read them the literal second I get the ao3 email, which is almost never at a convenient time to answer... I'll be catching up though & replying to all of them. either way, I appreciate your feedback a lot :3

Cullen misses the sunrise for three days in a row.

He sleeps well, with Dorian in his bed. The first morning, when he wakes after an uninterrupted sleep, it takes him a few slow, drowsy blinks in his bright bedroom to realise that it's not the middle of the night. Then Dorian yawns next to him and curls into his side, and Cullen relaxes back into his pillow.

During the days, they go for walks around the hills. Once, they walk down to Roland's grocery hand-in-hand, and the looks that Roland and others in the street give them make them laugh. They laugh harder when Dorian stops to kiss Cullen in the middle of the village, amidst more than one gasp. Whether the shock is over the sight of two men together or the general outward display of emotion, Cullen isn't sure, and he doesn't much care.

Back indoors, they cook and drink together, they sit by the fire, and they spend time in bed. A lot of time. Cullen doesn't let himself stop and consider how surreal it is to have something like this, with Dorian. It's rooted in a part of himself that he'd compartmentalised and sealed away a long time ago, with the thought that it was a distraction from the self-improvement that he needed to focus on instead. But perhaps it's been the missing puzzle piece all along.

On the third night, Cullen has a nightmare. He's back in Kirkwall, moving towards the grandiose chantry that stands at the pinnacle of Hightown. But it's as though the marbled walk is a treadmill because the chantry never grows any closer; it remains a small and fixed point in the distance. Every step is a struggle, leaving the muscles in Cullen's thighs burning and throbbing, and when he looks down he sees a pair of hands clasped around each of his ankles. Bodies slowly materialise at his feet, and when he pivots at the waist to look behind him he sees tens, maybe hundreds, of people chained together, hands to ankles, grasping towards him. He wants to speak, to reassure them of things he has no control over, but the words snare in his throat and he makes no sound. The people at the back of the chain begin to scream and wail, causing those in front of them to do the same, until the wall of noise closes in on Cullen like a wave and swallows him up until his subconscious is nothing more than a jumble of static and distortion.

He wakes suddenly with a long shout, sitting upright. All of his joints are rigid like steel, acrid panic blooming outward from the centre of his chest. His breathing is deep and rushed, and each inhale burns. Dorian stirs and reaches for Cullen's wrist, and it feels too close to the ghosting sensation of hands around his ankles, that he jerks away with a gasp. 

"Hey…" Dorian's voice is small in the dim light of the room. "Come lie down," he says, and from the corner of his eye, Cullen sees him reach a hand out but he stops just short of touching him again.

Cullen glances at Dorian and shakes his head, then turns to throw his legs over the side of the bed. He hunches forward, elbows on his knees.

His last nightmare—of the kind to truly rattle him this much—happened long enough ago that Cullen can't remember exactly when it was. He had felt as though he'd been making progress and getting better. But this is a regression. A defeat.

He turns to the calming techniques his psychiatrist had taught him, like a mental checklist. The panicked feeling melts away after a few minutes of focused breathing, and it leaves him with anxious, twitchy nerves. He shivers bodily, without feeling cold.

The sky outside is still mostly dark, not even a hint of the coming morning on the horizon. Were he alone, he would be up and making his way down to the boat by now—but Dorian is asleep in his bed, and Cullen doesn't want to leave him. So he lies down again, flat on his back, fingers of his left hand reaching to touch the nearest part of Dorian that they can.

He doesn’t sleep again, but he hadn't expected to either; rarely does his brain ever quiet long enough to sleep after a nightmare. He watches the walls of his bedroom brighten from dull grey to pale cream as the sun rises and takes over the sky, and he feels Dorian shift next to him as he wakes a second time. Dorian rolls over and places a long kiss to Cullen's shoulder, lips almost hot against his chilled skin.

Cullen can't think of anything to say and neither can Dorian, it seems. He suspects, though, that only he feels as though something needs to be said. They get out of bed and get dressed in relative quiet, until Dorian stops at the top of the stairs.

"Shall I make us some breakfast?" he asks, and Cullen nods.

Dorian makes toast and coffee, and a scramble of eggs, sausage, and tomato, and he doesn't let Cullen have any part in the process. They eat and Dorian carries much of the conversation, and they stay on the couch with their mugs of coffee for a while afterwards. On the surface, it probably seems perfectly cosy; to Cullen, it all feels precarious. He hasn't been able to shake the anxiety that has clung to him since the nightmare.

Eventually, Dorian gets up to clear away dishes; Cullen follows suit and Dorian tells him to stay, not to worry about it, but Cullen stands and follows anyway.

Dorian moves into the kitchen and stacks the dishes next to the sink. "Well," he says with a small sigh, as he finishes wiping his hands on a tea towel and turning away from the sink. "I suppose I ought to get back to reality today and get back to work…"

He continues talking, about the novel and its approaching deadline, but to Cullen the words are drowned out by the dull thud of his heart in his chest. He feels the same panic from last night taking root, but he can't pinpoint a reason for its reemergence.

It's no wonder Dorian is looking to make an escape now, now that he's seen the truth of who—of _what_ —Cullen is. He's broken and damaged, while Dorian is full of life and vigour. And Cullen's ruined it all, allowing Dorian to see him this way.

Dorian closes the distance between them and gives Cullen a quick kiss, but Cullen doesn't react, for how distracted he is by his own thoughts.

Dorian looks puzzled when he pulls back. "Is everything alright?"

Cullen sighs. He brings a hand up to rub over his face, with pressure enough to almost hurt, then draws his hand through his hair and down to the back of his neck. Something about the question irks him, or perhaps it's the fact it was asked at all.

Everything is very clearly _not_ alright. Can Dorian not see that? Or is he purposely being obtuse, playing dumb to absolve himself of any expectation to be involved in just how not-alright Cullen is? First he tells Cullen that he's leaving, then he kisses him as though he hasn't said anything at all—

Has Cullen not been at the mercy of this indecision enough? Should he not expect more, after several nights spent together?

The melancholy and resignation he felt moments ago is swiftly replaced.

"This is exactly the sort of hot-and-cold you dealt out weeks ago, that I tolerated without a word."

"I… The what? What do you mean?"

"It's selfish, asking me for attention and then leaving whenever it's convenient for you to do so."

"Selfish?" Dorian repeats, both eyebrows raised. " _Using_ you? I hardly think that's fair, given I've just spent three days on end with you—what else could you want?"

Cullen sighs and balls his hands into tight fists at his sides. "To feel okay again, and you're what makes me feel that way. I had no nightmares, and no trouble sleeping, while you've been here with me."

"Did you not just have one last night? While I was next to you, in your bed?"

"Which is exactly the reason you're leaving now! You've been scared off and you won't admit that that's the truth!" Cullen paces to the side, then retraces his steps.

"Cullen, I am _not_ scared off. I want to see you again, but I have _work_ to do."

Cullen scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest. His eyes flit to an unoccupied corner of the room, so as not to look at Dorian any longer.

"You've always known my reason for being here—that my time here is finite. The reality is that I _will_ need to leave, sooner or later."

"There's that word again—'reality.' What is this, then?" Cullen asks, gesturing across the space between him and Dorian. "Is this not real? Or is this just something that exists in a sort of alternate dimension that you're in, eventually to be forgotten? That must be why it's been so easy for you to string me along."

Dorian looks stricken, his mouth fallen open. He looks intently at Cullen for a few slow moments, then his mouth closes, his jaw set in a rigid line. "That is not at all what I implied," he says, not looking at Cullen as he pushes past him through the archway between kitchen and the front room. He turns, once he's on the other side of Cullen, and his expression is something Cullen's never seen on him before. Anger. Hurt. "My reality is the publisher waiting, on the other side of an impending deadline, to clawback the six-figure advance they paid me six months ago. My primary purpose in Honnleath has always been work."

He sighs, harsh, almost a growl, and heads for the front door. He begins shoving his feet into his boots, not bothering to tie the laces. The panic coursing through Cullen's blood radiates again, hot in his arms, his neck, his cheeks… everywhere.

"I can't be someone's… your lifeline. Not like that. I'm not the solution to this equation. Perhaps it's my fault, for giving you a false impression of the sort of person I am. But I am not built in that manner. I'm not reliable, and yes—as you say—too selfish to handle that degree of… I don't even know the word for it, that's how ill-equipped I am."

"At least you're honest. No sense in anything less, when we both know the truth of it."

Dorian looks at Cullen, standing in front of the door with his open boots and defiant eyes. "Right," he says, yanking his jacket from the peg on the wall and opening the door in the same motion.

He doesn't close it behind him when he leaves.

"Fuck!" Cullen shouts, rounding on his heel as though the kitchen, with the stack of dirtied dishes that Dorian had just handled, would have some sort of guidance for him.

It's a cacophony in his head, too many thoughts trying to happen at once and he can't make sense of any of them. As he stands in the middle of his house, he feels a gust of cool wind against the heated skin at the back of his neck, and he turns to face it.

And the still-open door.

He growls under his breath and walks through it, slamming it behind him.

Cullen starts towards the road that will lead him to the shore, ignoring the figure he can see in his periphery, stalking over the hills in the direction of the bed and breakfast.

Dorian looms like a spectre over his shoulder, even as Cullen gets further from his house and the distance between them grows. The tone of Dorian's voice in the way he'd said, "as you say," is what sticks in his mind. It's terse and bitter, like a revulsion he couldn't wait to get off his tongue. And the worst of it all, is that it was all warranted, because yes, Cullen _had_ said. He'd said a lot and most of it came from somewhere so far from his true heart that he can barely recall it now as he walks.

Nearer the village, a car backfires somewhere to Cullen's right. The sound of it repeats over and over in his head louder with each refrain. Instinct takes over and sends him to the ground, scrambling behind a low rock wall in front of someone's house. His breath comes in fits and starts, barely managing to choke past the constriction of his throat. He clamps his hands over his ears to drown out the noise, and it's not until a full minute later that he realises it's reverberating in his head and only there. The village is quiet and peaceful, same as it had been three minutes ago, when he moves his hands away and looks up over the edge of the wall.

Shame and embarrassment take over as he slinks out from his hiding spot, and he doesn't need to look at his damp knees to know they're grass-stained. It's been so long… since his first week in Honnleath, that such a benign thing had triggered that sort of life-or-death response. His step is feeble and his breathing shaking, but he sets off at a jog to cover the rest of the distance. If there's anything he's sure of now, it's that he needs to leave.

Finally the boat comes into view. Cullen tries to take careful steps over the slick dock but still slips a little as he goes hastily release the moorings. He steps onto the boat, latching onto the deck rails with sweaty palms as he makes his way to the bow. He turns the engine over harshly, and rushes the boat away from the dock, entirely lacking the care he normally takes. It doesn't matter now. All he needs is to get out onto the water, far enough that he can't see any hint of the village at his back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well this took a lot longer than intended :\  
> I ended up rewriting everything (except the last ~500 words) three times. apparently even though my brain knows what needs to be done, it still just sits there and goes "no, don't fiiight..." anyway! chapter 10 won't take nearly that long to come around. I'm also going to be taking a bit of a break after that to write a christmas fic, but it'll be very worth the slight delay to this one, promise.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> f i n a l l y.  
> I [posted about this briefly](http://starkhavened.tumblr.com/post/137764096619/sorry-for-being-pretty-absent-from-the-ol-tumblr) on my tumblr last week, but work has been absolutely draining and horrendous since December, and hasn't left me with a lot of writing energy. blah blah short staffed blah terrible stock markets blah blah, but the point is, this chapter is finally done!

"Now, where in the bloody Void…"

Dorian turns up the edge of the bed skirt for a third time, hoping in vain that _this_ will be the lucky chance he needs to see a tell-tale white cord waiting for him.

It isn't.

How his phone charger has managed to go missing in a room it hasn't left in nearly ten weeks is baffling, especially when it hasn't been needed in nearly as long.

Dorian sighs, dropping the bed skirt, and he stands. He gives up the search for the charger and turns instead to packing his clothes. He had been reluctant to unpack at first, continuing to live out of his duffle for a few weeks. At around the midpoint of his stay, he moved things into the closet and armoire of his room, and it had helped somewhat to make himself feel a little more at home. Now, though, he's cursing the decision as he tries to wrangle his life back into one place.

Even with all of his possessions in a pile on the bed, everything still feels scattered. It's as though he's forgetting something, but can't pinpoint exactly what it might be.

While he's organising and folding his shirts, his attention drifts out the window across from him, and his eyes fall on the small white house with the rust brick roof that sits amidst the rolling hills. The sight makes him freeze, poised over his duffle while his fingers worry idly over a soft cotton t-shirt. This is the first he's looked out the window long enough to catch sight of Cullen's house, since… _that_ morning; he's had his back to it for weeks, his attention focused entirely on his laptop, taken with the inspiration he needed to finish his first draft. It's a bitter sort of irony that he gets his best, most productive work done when he's trying to avoid acknowledging emotions.

But for better or worse, the draft _is_ finished. What remains now is endless edits and rewrites, input from editors and still more rewrites—all of which require more working internet and coffee than he has access to here, so it's time to take leave of Honnleath.

It isn't until he comes face to face with Cullen's house, out on the hill, that he's hit with the finality of what leaving means.

The first thought that occurs to him is that he needs to say goodbye—not that he wants to, or that he ought to, but that he _needs_ to. Perhaps it's for closure's sake. Perhaps it's out of a hope that there's some small salvageable piece hidden away. He had been hurt by Cullen's outburst and accusations, but what really pushed Dorian out the door was his own pride. That there was even a kernel of truth to what Cullen had said was more than his own ego could stand to face. Now, though, he's less than proud of himself. He'd said things he hadn't meant, and entirely failed at being understanding; he'd turned it all around on himself, rather than taking a moment to realise that ultimately, Cullen's issue wasn't him, or even anything tangible.

Dorian is entirely torn on whether Cullen would even see him now, after these three weeks, but the one thing he is certain of is that he needs to try.

 

Dorian stops a few metres away from Cullen's house, taking stock. All the windows are dark which isn't entirely unusual for midday, though it is dim and overcast. He wonders if perhaps Cullen is in town, or at the shore, but then he sees his bicycle propped up against the front stairs. Dorian's heartbeat speeds up to a staccato, when he thinks that Cullen must be home, just on the other side of one of those walls, so close but then not close at all. He hesitates where he stands, still staring at the bicycle, and his mind is telling him, yelling at him, to just walk up to the door. _This is why you came here._

Eventually Dorian steps forward, towards the house and up the front stairs. He takes a deep breath before knocking but his hand still shakes when he reaches out. He knocks three times, takes a step back, and waits. The seconds tick by slowly, as though each one is a day unto itself. He waits for what feels like a week and there's nothing. He steps forward to knock again, his heart pounding in his chest now— _thud, knock, thud, knock, thud, knock_. And he waits, longer than he should, hoping he'll get more than nothing this time.

He doesn't.

It could be that Cullen is inside and is ignoring the knocking—who else is likely to call on him except Dorian? But, standing in front of Cullen's door, Dorian can't shake the feeling that he's not home. Maybe it's some vain hope stoked stronger by his pride, maybe it isn't, but Dorian sets off towards the shore all the same.

The cloud is hanging even lower near the water, a thick fog that makes seeing more than even a few metres ahead difficult. So Dorian needs to walk right up to the tide pool to see that Cullen isn't sitting in front of it.

He lets out a heavy sigh and stares at the logs around the tide pool, before sitting down on the same one he'd sat on during his first conversation with Cullen. If that could even qualify as a conversation, Dorian thinks with a small, crooked smile; it hadn't consisted of more than a few words back and forth before Cullen had made as quick an escape as he could manage.

And now Dorian can't help but wonder if this is the extent of memories he'll have of time with Cullen, if they don't speak again before he returns to Denerim. The idea sets off a small burst of anxiety in his chest, and he dips his head forward, running both hands through his hair.

When he looks up, he scans what he can faintly see of the shoreline and the harbour—and there's a blank space where Cullen's boat ought to be.

Seeing that the boat is gone jogs Dorian's memory, and he remembers his conversation about Cullen with the lady that runs the tea house. It wasn't unusual for Cullen to disappear for days at a time on his boat, she had said. That must be it, Dorian figures. At some point after their argument, Cullen went down to the boat and sailed off. But Dorian has no idea of knowing just how long he's been gone, and that only causes the anxiety to spread, thinking that Cullen might be out on the water for Maker knows how long, with no one knowing where he is. What is the boat even called? Dorian has no idea… and the one time he's been on it, catching the name of the vessel hadn't been high among his priorities.

He can feel the panic begin to spiral outwards, and he needs to get away from this spot, to remove himself from all these visual markers of Cullen's existence, or else he'll spend his whole day here, ruminating on things over which he has no control.

Funny how his room at the bed and breakfast feels like a safe haven, now. Dorian takes a brief detour, to leave a note on Cullen's door, nervously scrawled on a piece of paper from the notebook that's ever-present in his pocket. It's as much as he can do, he thinks, without knowing where Cullen is or when he'll be back. If he'll be back.

 

Dorian skips dinner that evening. It smells enticing from his room, but his stomach isn't interested for the anxiety that still has a hold on him. Instead, he finishes packing. If anything, it allows him to take an earlier boat out of Honnleath in the morning. After having the rest of the day to think about Cullen and the way things will be left between them, he's eager to rid himself of this place, as quickly as possible.

Around eight, as Dorian's contemplating an embarrassingly-early bedtime, there's a knock on his door. He isn't surprised to find Margaret on the other side of it, though the beaming smile she wears is certainly unexpected.

"Hello, Margar—"

"You have a visitor," Margaret says, interrupting in a sing-song voice.

Dorian quirks a sceptical eyebrow at her, but pushes the door open wider all the same.

Cullen is standing there, just behind Margaret and to the right, his hands clasped behind his back as though he's been told to stand at parade rest. The soft, crooked smile he gives Dorian when their eyes meet certainly isn't regulation, however.

"Well, so I do…" Dorian says, not taking his eyes from Cullen as he speaks. "Thank you, Margaret."

Margaret nods and pats Cullen's arm as she turns down the corridor. Cullen smiles after her and takes a step closer to Dorian's door, but he doesn't make to enter the room.

"I saw your note," he says, and the tension in his voice belies the ease of his smile from a moment ago.

Dorian lets out a soft sigh, relieved that all of his worst case scenarios appear to have been dashed. "You've good timing," he says, then draws further back into his room. "Come in?"

Cullen nods once and takes a few tentative steps into the bedroom, and turns to gently close the door behind him. He seems so small, despite his large frame, as though he's trying to shrink into himself. Or perhaps he already has. Dorian moves to the bed and sits on the edge of it, hoping Cullen will join him.

"I thought I might have missed you… I wasn't sure when you'd left it." Cullen stays where he is, arms crossed over his chest. He can't seem to maintain eye contact for more than a few seconds. "But I figured, the fact it was still intact and not a soggy, torn-up mess probably meant it was recent."

"I was afraid you wouldn't see it in time. I leave tomorrow…" Dorian says, glancing sidelong at his packed duffle on the desk across from the bed.

Cullen's gaze follows and he stares at the duffle for a long moment, then drops his head and nods.

Dorian waits to see whether Cullen has anything to say, then clears his throat softly when it seems he doesn't. "I was afraid we wouldn't see each other again." Cullen lifts his head at that, and meets Dorian's eye. "I went to the tide pool, after there was no answer at your door. it was late into the morning and overcast, and I think I knew before I even got there that it'd be futile, that you wouldn't be there, because I know that place has some specific purpose and…" Dorian sighs again, and starts fidgeting with a loose thread on the quilt underneath him. "Anyway, I sat there for a little while, before I noticed your boat wasn't in the harbour. I didn't know how long… but I had to try, at least."

"I had to get away," Cullen says, his voice quiet. "After that… argument."

Dorian nods, wondering if that means Cullen was on the water for the full three weeks since that morning. It doesn't matter, one way or the other, but still he wonders. And still Cullen stands near the door as if caught between staying and leaving, too far away.

"Come sit next to me, would you? If you want to…" Dorian says, and Cullen does, finally. He sits a few inches away, but it's close enough for Dorian because it means he's here, and he wants to be. "I was afraid you wouldn’t want to see me again."

Cullen shakes his head, turning in towards Dorian a little more. "No, I did. But I didn't think _you'd_ want to see _me_ again, after the way I was. I'd been doing well, especially so after you came along, and then that nightmare, it…" He sighs and looks down at his hands, clasped tightly in his lap.

"It's alright, you don't need to explain it. I was angry in the moment, but before I'd even reached the bed and breakfast, I regretted my reaction and wished that I could turn around."

Cullen huffs. It sounds rueful. "I'd set off by then."

"Well, what matters is after everything that we've got this moment to set things right." To end it on different terms, he thinks, but the finality of it is bitter on his tongue, so he swallows the thought instead.

Cullen nods. His attention drifts over to the duffle again, packed and ready to go when it's time for Dorian to leave. He nods again and looks back at Dorian, their eyes meeting for a brief moment, before Cullen's drop to look at Dorian's mouth—

He places a hand on the bed between them and leans in, kissing Dorian with enough intent that he has to brace himself too, to keep from falling backward.

Cullen's lips are soft, gentle, but still he presses into Dorian, leaning far into his space. He brings his free hand up to cup the side of Dorian's head, and right away his thumb rubs back and forth over the close-shorn hair underneath it.

Dorian huffs against Cullen's lips, when Cullen inches forward a little more. "You're going to knock me right backwards…"

He can feel Cullen's lips twitch, probably into a truly smug smirk. "Would that be so terrible?"

Exactly the opposite, Dorian thinks, and he acquiesces, pulling back to rearrange himself against the pillows at the head of the narrow bed.

Cullen's eyes track slowly up Dorian's frame as he stretches out, and when they look at each other again, Cullen smiles. "Much better," he says, crawling after Dorian. He settles between Dorian's legs and leans down to kiss him again.

Dorian wraps both arms across the back of Cullen's neck, holding him close. It feels possessive, and it feels okay. Cullen's tongue is soft against his, but it's determined too, and Dorian finds himself idly wondering who Cullen learned this from. Maybe some fellow soldier when they were young. Or a girl from school, even. Perhaps it was no one doing the teaching, and this is simply more of just Cullen, being quietly perfect. It's not something he'd ever get an answer to, he knows—asking Cullen about it would result in the swiftest means of avoidance possible, no doubt. But no matter. Whatever the circumstances, Dorian is enjoying the outcome now.

Cullen pulls back a little then, sucking gently at Dorian's lower lip as he goes, and moves his lips to Dorian's jaw. He kisses over the fine stubble that he's been too lazy to shave just yet, following the edge of his jaw to the hollow below his ear.

"I'm glad you came back," Dorian says, his voice only just above a whisper. He slips a hand up into the curls at the back of Cullen's head, tightening his grip and tugging slightly—the last time he did this, it drew the most delicious half-sigh, half-groan from Cullen…

And it does again, the hot exhale of breath hitting Dorian's neck. "Me too," Cullen mumbles, pressing a kiss to Dorian's skin. "If I had missed you…"

His voice trails off and it hits Dorian right in his chest, tight and aching. He cards his fingers through Cullen's hair again and leans forward to place a kiss to the top of his head. He inhales deeply through his curls, smelling of shampoo, and a brine that may never fully wash away.

Cullen puts a hand to Dorian's waist, then slides it down to his hip and around to the small of his back. He hitches Dorian up, pressing them closer together as he takes his mouth again. The gentleness is beginning to erode, as he kisses harder, more intently.

Dorian moans under his breath, kissing Cullen back eagerly. He can feel Cullen growing harder, pressing into the join at the top of his thigh. It would be so easy, to rock against Cullen, to work him harder, but his packed belongings are a weight in the back of his mind, an ever-present reminder that this is all over in less than half a day.

Cullen answers Dorian's moan in kind, and as if reading his thoughts, he rolls his hips down, grinding into Dorian. Dorian's hips jerk up in response, an automatic reaction borne of his own desire, but he quickly catches himself.

"Cullen," he says, gasping as he pulls away from Cullen's lips. "Are you sure? Tomorrow, I…"

Cullen follows after Dorian, leaning in to kiss next to his mouth. "I know. But I want to pretend like the last three weeks never happened. I want to spend your last night together, like we would've if that morning had ended differently…"

He seems to take Dorian's ensuing silence for a dismissal, instead of the lack of right words that it is, and he pulls back, lifting up on both arms.

"I'll leave if you want me to."

Dorian sighs a little, looking at Cullen carefully, holding his gaze as though it might shatter at any moment. He reaches up to touch his hair again, this time focusing on the large, soft curls over his forehead. He rearranges a few that have fallen forward out of place, gingerly moving them to the side. When he lowers his hand, he sweeps it down the side of Cullen's face, cupping his cheek, before shaking his head and leaning up to kiss him softly.

"That isn't what I want, not at all."

Cullen kisses back and smiles through it. "Have you got—" he starts, whispered.

Dorian cuts him off with a nod. "In the duffle. One of the side pockets, not sure which…"

Cullen sits up and slips off the bed. Dorian can see the bulge in the front of his pants in the lamplight, and he swallows thickly.

His interest in sex in any form has been all but non-existent since that argument, but in recent, rare flashes of need, he hasn't allowed himself to think of Cullen in this way. And now, now that he's here, that they're about to— well, Dorian is suddenly overcome.

He quickly strips off his pants, pressing the heel of his palm against his half-hard cock. It tugs a quick moan from him, and Cullen looks back over his shoulder at the sound of it, his gaze hungry and his smirk easy.

"No getting ahead of me, now," he says, turning away from the duffle. He tosses a condom and Dorian's small tube of slick onto the bed, and starts undressing too.

Dorian tugs his t-shirt off and hastily kicks his clothes aside, to watch as more and more of Cullen's skin is exposed.

Neither speaks as Cullen returns to the bed, stretching out alongside Dorian's body as best he can in the small space; he kisses at Dorian's shoulders and chest, a possessive hand resting low on his stomach. It's not their first time, not with those three days spent at Cullen's house doing little else _but_ this, but still it feels new and different. Dorian feels Cullen's hand against the outside of his thigh, as he reaches for the lube, then Cullen pulls his leg aside, up over his hip, and he begins to work Dorian open.

He lets out a sigh and a groan when Cullen eventually works up to a third finger, and like a magnet the sound draws Cullen down to him, to his lips.

"You'll wake the other tenants," Cullen whispers after a moment, teasing.

Dorian smiles, though his breath hitches when Cullen strokes his finger _just so_. "I— uh. I don't think there _are_ any other tenants right now. Besides, that was all your fault…"

Cullen chuckles under his breath and nips gently at Dorian's jaw. "Mm, yes. You're entirely innocent in all of this, aren't you?"

Any worthy response Dorian might have given disintegrates on his tongue at the sight of Cullen now, settling back on his haunches between Dorian's legs, cock stiff and glistening at the tip in the dim light of the room. He strokes himself a few times, his head tipping back slightly with a sigh. Dorian bites his lip against the wave of need that washes through his blood, until he can't stand the waiting any longer and he beckons Cullen with a whispered, "c'mon…"

Cullen quickly rolls the condom on and slicks himself, shifting forward. Dorian pushes down the bed at the same time, eager to meet halfway. Cullen runs a hand over the top of Dorian's thigh, then slips it underneath to lift if over his shoulder, and finally he pushes in. They exhale together, and Cullen groans when he hilts himself. He rolls his hips while still fully buried and Dorian moans for the feeling of total, perfect fullness. His hands reach for whatever part of Cullen they can touch—his hip, his arm—whatever he can use to encourage Cullen to move. Cullen pulls back and sets a slow, shallow pace, and Dorian groans.

"Yes, Cullen," he says, arching his back off the bed to lean into it as much as he can.

Cullen bends forward and drops his head, leaving biting kisses over Dorian's chest. "You feel so good," he mumbles against Dorian's skin. "I missed you…"

Dorian nods, his lower lip trapped between his teeth, and he moans through his nose as Cullen presses deeper. His grip on Cullen tightens and it acts like a spur, urging Cullen to work his hips harder, to make each thrust longer, until he and Dorian are fully flush at the end of each one.

Dorian groans Cullen's name, and he isn't going to last long, not for how heady and consuming this is. He wraps a hand around himself and keeps pace with Cullen in long, slow strokes, squeezing the head with every dull slap of skin on skin.

Before long, when they're both panting and keening for release, Cullen lets out a rough sigh, his head bowed so Dorian can feel the burst of warm air over his skin. "Fuck…" he says, his voice thick and strained, his hips snapping against Dorian. "Dorian, I'm—"

Dorian nods again, though Cullen can't see it, and he moans, rocking his hips upward in answer, _deeper, deeper_ repeating like a litany in his head. When he comes, it's with a bitten-off groan, held back more than he wants it to be; he wants Cullen to hear it all but it should only be for Cullen to hear, still.

Cullen fucks through Dorian's orgasm, his hips stuttering, his breath uneven, until finally he lets go with Dorian's name on his lips like an absolution.

 

Morning falls over Honnleath too soon, intruding into the warm enclave of Dorian's room with a bright wash of indirect sun through the windows. Cullen's sleeping face is a welcome first sight, however.

The packed duffle bag on the desk across the room is a terrible follow up. It looms behind Cullen, like a spectre that Dorian can't ignore. He slips carefully from the bed, existing by the foot of it to keep from waking Cullen. However, when he returns from his shower, Cullen is already awake and dressed. He's sitting on the edge of the bed facing the duffle as though the two are in a tête-à-tête.

Cullen offers to walk Dorian to the harbour, and Dorian is thankful that he doesn't need to think of a way to ask for exactly that. He settles things with Margaret at the front desk, punctuated with a smothering hug and two kisses to the cheek, and then he and Cullen set off down the hill towards the water, hand in hand.

Dorian looks towards the tide pool from the road as they pass it, and he huffs. "Well, at least you won't miss so many sunsets now." Cullen doesn't respond save for a squeeze of Dorian's hand. "I always meant to ask," Dorian continues. "Why the tide pool? What's the significance of it?"

They take several more steps before Cullen answers. "They seem so small, so restrictive to us, yet… the fish inside them aren't frantic. They know the scope of the ocean, how vast it is, but they aren't desperate to escape and rejoin the fray. It's a reprieve for them, I think. They know they'll be part of it all again sometime, when the tide carries them out to it."

Dorian hums, considering. The true answer is what's between the lines, as has so often been the case with Cullen, but he understands. And Maker damn him, but he feels his heart swell a little for it, too.

When they reach the harbour, they stop and face the boat that Dorian has chartered, standing side by side.

"If I ever end up in Denerim again…" Cullen starts, after a few quiet moments, "I'll let you know."

"You'd damn well better," Dorian says, with a short chuckle.

"And I'd expect the same of you, if you ever end up in Honnleath again—though we both know that isn't likely to happen." Cullen turns to face Dorian, with a smirk. Dorian starts to respond, to protest despite knowing Cullen isn't wrong, and Cullen shakes his head. "It was what it was, and we'll leave this at that, yes?"

He leans in, bringing a hand to Dorian's cheek and they kiss, soft and simple. Perfect.

"Yes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> full credit goes to [tara](http://commanderruthernerd.tumblr.com) for the reasoning behind the tide pool. we were bouncing around ideas about this AU back in the ~day and she threw that out. and I just blubbed everywhere for five minutes and knew I had to write this whole story just to be able to write through that part of it.


	11. Chapter 11

Time passes faster in Denerim, than it did in Honnleath—which isn't new information, but it was long-forgotten. Dorian is granted one day of quiet, immediately after returning to his flat and he's sure that's only because no one was yet aware he was home. But he made the mistake of answering a few emails that evening and by the next day, life was back to normal, with or without him.

His agent, Maevaris, has meeting after meeting planned for him—with her, with the lead editor at the publisher, with the directors of marketing, and of design, and of social media—so many that it's more than two weeks since coming home that he actually finds time to unpack.

The duffle he brought to Honnleath has been sitting in the corner of his bedroom, unmoved and ignored, since he'd slung it off his shoulders with a full-body sigh after finally making it home. It feels heavier now, as he lifts it onto his bed, than it had before. The memories of Cullen and Honnleath weigh on more than just his mind, it seems. All of Dorian's clothes are wrinkled to the Void and back, and everything smells faintly of musty leather from sitting in the duffle for so long. He drops each article directly into the laundry basket at his feet without ceremony. His mind is elsewhere, distracted by the editing that he needs to start soon, the cover designs that he needs to choose between, groceries he's long overdue to buy—anywhere except Honnleath, and it takes all of his concentration to manage it. Avoidance and ignorance are proving to be the fastest, surest means to cauterising the raw parts of him that still twinge with pain.

It works, until his fingers grip onto a soft, thick-textured knit. It's such a different feeling from the light jerseys and cottons that make up most of his wardrobe, so he inspects it as he pulls the piece from the duffle. It's a heathered charcoal grey, and the recognition of it stops him in his tracks.

He hasn't worn the sweater since that night at Cullen's house, with the stew and the wine and the… everything else. He'd slept in it, back at the bed and breakfast, tugged it off the next morning, and it'd kept a place among the rest of his clothes ever since. He hadn't realised that he still had it, let alone that he'd brought it home to Denerim with him.

Dorian rubs the fabric back and forth between his fingers a few times. The sweater feels all-encompassing, too large, too heavy, too much, despite its size and shape never changing. He wants to throw it away and hold it close in equal measure, until temptation wins out and he brings it up to bury his nose in it and sniff it deeply. The scent of it is a combination of Cullen and his own cologne now, after mingling with his own clothes this long—rich and musky but tinged with sharp cedar. The scent burns and stings at his still-raw nerves, so many memories of Cullen coming to him at once. The latent feeling that he's fucked up, by not trying harder or doing more, creeps up on him. He'd buried it deep as fast as he could after leaving Cullen behind on the dock, but perhaps not deep enough. His stomach flips and he swallows thickly against the tightness taking over his throat. He has to let go—of the sweater, in the moment, but of everything else too—but he can't bring himself to toss the sweater into the laundry basket with everything else. So he puts it down on the bed, and hurries to finish the rest of his unpacking, dumping the rest of his clothes into the laundry basket and tossing the duffle bag back into the corner. The thing was expensive, bought during a small spree from the advance on his first book, and normally he'd treat it better but he can't be bothered to care, now. He turns back to the bed, and the dark sweater is stark against the crisp white of his bedding. Dorian reaches for it and he fold sit neatly instead of sniffing it again like his first instinct tells him to. He moves to place it on top of his dresser, as though he's setting it aside to easily remember it when it's time to give it back, until he reminds himself that that time isn't coming. Instead, he heaves a sigh, and sets it on top of the pillow on the untouched side of his bed.

 

Dorian can't help but yawn as he passes through the front door of his flat. He's been low on sleep as it is, for how preoccupied his mind is with revisions and edits and _this just isn't perfect yet_ , and now he's just come from a marathon of a meeting with Maevaris and his editor that turned "don't yawn in their faces like an ingrate" into a challenge.

He kicks off his boots and shuffles through the flat to his desk, tucked in the far corner of the open main level. He slings his bag from his shoulder and sets it down, pulling out his laptop and a sizable stack of notes from the editor. He's nearing the end of the whole process—the cover work is done, the release date has been set, test copies of the penultimate draft are out with focus groups, and all that's left is this final rewrite. Which Dorian is keen to start, but not without the darkest, strongest coffee he can manage to brew.

In the three months since he's been home, tea has slowly taken over Dorian's cupboard, to the point where he has to shift aside three different boxes in order to reach his bag of Antivan dark roast, the holy grail of coffees as far as he's concerned. The one problem with it, however, is that every time he pulls it from the cupboard, every time he take a deep sniff of its thick, murky scent, before tipping the grounds into his coffee press, is that he thinks about how much Cullen would enjoy it, and how he'd like to send him a bag of his own.

It might be feasible… address the package to Cullen care of the postal outlet in Honnleath. Surely it would get to him somehow. But it wouldn't be just a harmless bag of coffee, would it? It'd be carrying the weight of everything that they agreed to leave behind them. What would Dorian do, include a quick note of explanation? _Enjoy this bag of coffee that makes me think of you with damn near every sip I take of it, even though we haven't spoken in nearly fourth months and you said we should let things be what they were and I agreed, thinking I would be fine with that but now I'm beginning to think that I'm very much_ not.

Disastrous.

When his coffee is brewed, Dorian returns to his desk with the carafe and a mug, and he sits down to work. He's purposely set his desk to face the brick wall rather than the massive picture window it's adjacent to, because he doesn't need the distraction. He has a view of the central square of the city, ringed on all sides by shops and cafes, and all too often the people-watching is much more interesting than the work he has to get done. He's spent a lot of time leant up against the glass, watching the people below him—he's seen random encounters and first dates, breakups and makeups, happy families and people weighted down by a palpable loneliness, and he's worked many of them into his writing. It's fantastically inspiring when he needs it, but also fantastically distracting once he's past that stage.

He opens his laptop, the document of his master copy of his novel still up on screen. Editor's notes and revisions are all over it, the red text marking it like scrapes and scratches after a fight. Now Dorian has to set about putting it to rights, healing the wounds, covering the scars leftover, making it all as polished and flawless as he can get it to be.

He starts off at a good clip, working his way through the notes methodically, but it isn’t long before he's interrupted by his phone, chirping and blinking at him from beside his laptop. He checks it, because he can never ignore the blinking; it's an email from Mae, to him and the publisher's social media director, about possible book tour dates. Not his worry right now, so he puts the phone down and gets back to work.

Only for the thing to go off again, two minutes later. And again, again, again.

"Oh, just pick up your blighted phones and _call_ each other," he mutters, swiping away the notification for four new emails. He turns the phone off and he can't help his rueful chuckle as he does it, remembering the first weeks in Honnleath, back when he would have paid exorbitant sums or done embarrassing things for an hours' worth of internet connection.

Without the extra distraction, he makes good headway into clearing away the editor's notes. It's only the late afternoon yet and he could likely finish it all that night, but he needs a break, first. Leaning back in his desk chair with a sigh, he reaches for his phone and turns it back on. There's a peaceful moment, between the home screen appearing and the internet connecting, and then there's the deluge. More emails from Mae, and the editor, texts from Felix—which are blessedly not work related—and various social media notifications. Before Honnleath, and being forcibly removed from all of this connectedness, Dorian might have spent the next hour or more catching up on it all. He can't be bothered now, though. Anything pressing concerning the book, Mae will tell him about at their next meeting. So he swipes everything away, and answers only Felix.

Dorian reaches into his bag that hangs from the back of his chair and fishes out his notebook. It's the same one he took to Honnleath, and it shows—battered and bruised, bent at one corner, and the spiral binding warped near the bottom.

He takes the notebook and his phone and retreats to the couch. He needs to let the work on his laptop percolate, to give himself a fresh mind, lest he get bogged down by the minutiae of grammar and sentence structure. And he's been meaning to review all of the photos and notes that he took during his 'recon missions' around Honnleath during his first days there, to make sure he hasn't forgotten any of the things that spoke to him. It's been easy to do so far, for how familiar the place came to be, after eight weeks.

Dorian opens his camera roll and starts swiping through the photos, newest to oldest. The first set of pictures he sees are of the centre of Honnleath—the main square, the Chantry. They aren't the first picture he took of these places, but the lighting that day has spoken to him. It was just after a storm, so the sky was still heavy and dark, except for a few piercing beams of sun that set the whole village awash in weak grey light. Seeing the place again, it reminds him of Cullen, the way they kissed in front of the Chantry, the way it made them laugh between themselves afterwards. And that day that Cullen took him to see the remnants of Shayle, when he'd kept his bike between them as if to be a barrier. Whether it was Cullen protecting himself from Dorian, or Dorian from himself, is still a question to Dorian now, but he suspects the latter.

The next set of photos is of the path winding behind the pub, of the clearing above the village and the base of the statue. Of course, he's reminded still of the at day with Cullen, sitting close enough on the bench in the clearing to feel each other's body heat, as Cullen told the folk story of Shayle and her lasting impression on poor Honnleath. But it also reminds Dorian of a night, weeks later, after he'd heard the news of his father's passing, and after he'd downed several pints in an odd combination of relief and mourning. Cullen had found him round the side of the pub, as he was looking for that path. And then… the boat.

Dorian swipes on, to find a photo of Cullen's house taken from the window of his room at the bed and breakfast. There's nothing special about it—not the lighting, the state of the sky or the weather, the composition—so he must have taken it early on, purely for the sake of documenting the landscape, before he'd come to know the significance of it. A lot of memories resurface at once, jumbling together and speaking over each other, except for one—the night when Dorian saw Cullen for the first time after his awkward flight from the boat. It had been a turning point that night, and while it make Dorian smile to remember it now, it's a bittersweet sort of memory.

The next several photos are more landscape studies, and Dorian swipes through them more quickly than the others. After spending so long in Honnleath, he has the beauty of it all ingrained in his mind so clearly, there would've been no way for him to understate it in his writing. He reaches some photos of the shoreline and he pays them little attention until something twinges in the back of his mind and compels him to backtrack by two or three photos. He leans forward to look more closely at the photo he's landed on, studying it to figure out _why_ it had stood out to his subconscious. The realisation hit shim and he falls back against the couch cushions, the hand holding his phone dropping onto his thigh, and he exhales deeply. It's the first time he's actually seen Cullen since leaving Honnleath, aside from what he's seen in his memories. But this photo that Dorian had taken only for its aesthetics, of a man that would turn out to be Cullen, sitting on a log on the beach against a rare blue sky is so much more visceral. It's evocative, to see Cullen so unaware and in his element; privately tragic, but also hopeful too, now that Dorian knows the progress he's made and the role that the tide pool has played in that.

Dorian stares at the photo a while longer, zooming in to focus on the figure of Cullen, and zooming out to see him in the larger context of a place that was so foreign to Dorian when the photo was taken, but that feels familiar now. And then an idea hits him: something for the book. It's not so easy an edit as the story itself, because everything else has been finalised and locked in with the publisher, but maybe…

He switches away from the photo to his email and sends a message. ' _Mae, I need you to work your magic for me, one more time_ —'

 

Rilienus sends a text later that night. ' _How long do I have to wait until you invite me over?_ ' he says. It's the first contact since Dorian left Denerim, nearly six months ago.

Dorian reads the text, switches back to the article he'd been reading… and goes to read the text again not even thirty seconds later.

Of course he's thought about Rilienus in all of that time, even a few time since returning from Honnleath. Once, after about a month being home and three quarters of a bottle of wine, Dorian nearly invited him over. He's still not sure what had stopped him, then—maybe some sense of dignity buried somewhere deep. Given that, once upon a time, Dorian would have been inclined to call him while he was still on his way home from a trip, this is an improvement.

Dorian clears his throat as he starts to reply to Rilienus' text. He freezes briefly, stuck on what to say, unsure of what he wants. He doesn't want o tog back to their old ways, he's fairly certain of at least that much. But, he is lonely.

' _Let's start with a drink, shall we?_ '

Two nights later, they go for that drink.

Rilienus is at the bar—the same one they always used to go to before, chosen mostly for its position smack in the middle of their flats—before Dorian, which is a change.

"And here I thought _I'd_ be the one nursing a drink while I waited for _you_ ," Dorian says as he comes up to the table Rilienus has chosen.

Rilienus smiles with his eyes first, bright and warm as they look at Dorian over the rim of his martini glass. He lowers the glass and smiles for real, all white teeth and soft lips, and Dorian feels it in his gut as he sits next to him.

"Sue me for being a little eager." Rilienus leans over, eyes glancing to Dorian's lips and Dorian leans into it, but he gives Rilienus his cheek at the last moment.

Dorian feels his skin burning under Rilienus' lips, but it feels more like embarrassment than like any sort of searing desire. He smiles and pulls back, fumbling to reach for the drink list to give him something to look at that isn't that perfectly-bronzed face, those rich hazel eyes, or those soft waves of black hair.

"Sorry that I've not reached out," Dorian says, when Rilienus is finally back firmly in his own seat. "The real work began as soon as I regained internet connection, more or less." A server comes by then, and he spends considerably more time choosing a cocktail than he otherwise would.

"I couldn't imagine going so long without human contact," Rilienus says, his voice laced with something like disdain. "I'm frankly shocked you managed it at all."

Dorian clears his throat again. "I made do."

"Well, what counts is that you're back to civilisation now," Rilienus says, and Dorian hums in response. "Is the work all done now?"

The server returns with his cocktail and Dorian thanks him, then nods to Rilienus' question. "On my part it is, yes. The final manuscript is with the publishers, and will be out for print any day now, I'm told." Dorian takes a deep drink—some elderflower and gin concoction that is surely meant to be sipped, but circumstances demand otherwise. "Release date is scheduled for a month from next Tuesday."

"So I've finally got you all to myself again," Rilienus says, winking at Dorian before finishing his martini. He lowers his glass and signals to the server for another in the same motion.

Dorian smiles weakly and shifts in his seat, suddenly thankful for the space between their chairs.

Rilienus begins talking about a job he booked while Dorian was away—a photoshoot for the lookbook of some Antivan designer. Dorian's never heard of him and he rather suspects few outside the fashion industry have, but Rilienus is doing his best to make the guy sound like  staple of the Val Royeaux elite.

"That's when your mother called me, of all places! With little more than a sash and a metric tonne of glitter to spare my dignity. That made for an awkward explanation to the rest of the set afterwards."

Rilienus laughs and punctuates it with a sip of his fresh martini. Dorian, for his part, realises that Rilienus has made no mention of his father's passing. He knows the history there, including the feelings Dorian held towards him, but still—no question as to how Dorian is faring, not even any perfunctory condolences for niceties' sake.

Dorian looks down at his half-finished cocktail and swirls it around the glass a few times, while Rilienus finishes his story. He lifts it to his lips, and where the drink had first tasted sweet and floral, now it's acrid and bitter on the tongue.

Dorian sets the glass down as though it weighs twice what it does. "I need to go," he says, moving out of his seat.

His eyes are set on the front door of the bar and the road beyond, but he can sense the gape of Rilienus' mouth, over his shoulder.

"Dorian, wait." Rilienus reaches for Dorian's arm, just a little shy of being able to grab him. "Is it something I've done?"

Dorian glances back at him, and for once his eyes don't look bright and inviting, but hard and dulled instead.

Dorian withdraws from his touch, and shakes his head once. A small smile tugs at the corner of his lips but it's not for Rilienus so he holds it back. "No. It's rather that I've finally done something right for once, certainly without intending to and in a very round-a-bout way, but… still right."

Out in the street, the wind is sharp and bracing, and welcome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm the worst for this chapter taking so long! february was pretty much a write-off, between having a house guest and work and kinda just feeling generally not-awesome. i also had to take a few stabs at this chapter before i came up with a version i was happy with. hope it was worth the wait :)


	12. Chapter 12

** EPILOGUE **

Falling back into old routines comes naturally to Cullen, after Dorian leaves Honnleath. It's not easy, however; it's fractious and anxious. What had once felt comforting, assuring, begins to feel stifling; the structure of a day or a week morphs into a series of holding patterns and Cullen is acutely aware of time as it passes him by. It's stagnation, and little else.

But Cullen keeps to them, because what else does he know, on his own?

He visits the tide pool nearly every morning, settling onto his usual log while charcoal grey still clings to the sky. For the first month, though, he misses most of the sunrises, with his attention pegged to the road that borders the shore, in some unfounded and misplaced hope that Dorian might come by.

During that same month, people in the village watch him. Some stare. They give him looks of pity, of curiosity, of disdain—but looks are all it amounts to, until the second month starts. Maybe they all gathered together and agreed on a pact to get whatever they could out of Cullen, to because they begin asking questions. They ask about Dorian, they ask about Cullen's relationship to him, and Cullen gives them no answers whatsoever. He has no interest in fueling their need to gossip. He sees Margaret around the village from time to time, and the two of them share a knowing smile, and that's as far as Cullen's public acknowledgement that Dorian, at one time, existed in Honnleath goes.

The book will come out, eventually—let them all sate their appetites on that when it does.

The third month passes like the second, indistinguishable in nearly every way except for the way the sun sets earlier and earlier, week by week.

And by the start of the fourth, Cullen needs more distance, less routine. It's a somewhat hasty decision that sees him packing up his boat in the evening, but it's not the first time he's left in a rush either.

It's dim inside the cabin but he knows the layout of it well enough now that he can move through it without much light. The sun is minutes from falling below the horizon, leaving the sky in a wash of red and orange in its wake. It will be dark outside before long, but Cullen will be out of the harbour and out on the open water by then, and it won't matter.

He glances through the portside window as he passes by, meaning to get a glimpse of the sky but ending up with an all-together different sight. He's frozen, staring out the window at Dorian standing on the dock, one hand scratching the back of his head as he looks around.

Cullen's stomach rocks from side to side, as if the boat were hit by a wave, and he moves out onto the deck. Dorian turns at the creaking of the wood and a smile beams across his entire face when their eyes meet.

"Dorian…" Cullen says, voice trapped under his breath.

"Hi." Dorian's smile softens but only somewhat. "Permission to come aboard?"

All Cullen can manage is to stare in disbelief a little longer, before nodding once. "Uh… yeah. Yeah, of course."

Dorian steps onto the deck of the boat and gives Cullen's arm a squeeze, while Cullen is torn over whether he ought to pull Dorian close and turn it into a hug.

"Heading out on the water?" Dorian asks, before slipping his duffle off his shoulder and carefully putting it down.

Cullen nods, watching Dorian and then darting his attention the horizon when he feels he's been watching too long. He tries not to think much about what the duffle means.

"You know what they say."

Dorian chuckles, then his smile falls as he looks at Cullen, as if waiting for something. "I do…?"

Cullen laughs too, because really, he should've known. "Red sky at night, sailor's delight; red sky at morning, sailor's warning."

"That's what they say, hmm? What's so terrible about a red sky at morning?" Dorian moves to the deck railing, leaning against it. "Either one sounds lovely to me."

Cullen hangs back, taking a few moments to look at Dorian against the sunset, to confirm that yes, he is indeed here again. "It's an old mariner's saying," Cullen says eventually, before moving to stand next to Dorian. "Red sky at morning means a storm's coming in, red sky at night means the coast is clear."

Dorian hums, the corner of his mouth turning up in to a wry smile. "There's my new fact learnt for the day, thanks for that."

"Surely you didn't need to come all the way back to Honnleath just for a useless tidbit of information."

Dorian laughs and nudges Cullen's arm with his own. "Oh, you caught me." He pulls away from the railing then, and goes over to his duffle. He opens it and roots around inside, before pulling out a dark, soft-looking bundle. "I actually came to return this," he says, holding it out to Cullen.

Cullen takes it and recognises it as the sweater he'd leant Dorian, months ago. Truthfully, he'd forgotten it all together, in the wake of everything else. "You could have kept it, Dorian, really."

"Perhaps, but it really is more your style than mine." He takes his place next to Cullen again, standing a little closer this time. "Plus, I needed something to wrap your copy of my book in."

Cullen feels the sharp corner of something through the thick knit at the same time as Dorian speaks, and he huffs, smiling slightly. "Congratulations, then. I was wondering when it might be releasing, but knew there'd be little chance of it ever finding its way to a shop here."

"Technically there are still a few weeks to go, but they've given me advance copies. And, well, the mail system is just _so_ untrustworthy…" Dorian says with a wink, his voice ending in a low drawl.

"Your agent let you come here, with no mobile service, this soon before it releases?"

Dorian shrugs. "With the express promise that I'll be home in time to start all of the press and the book tour, yes. But I must say, dear Cullen, you're really ruining the charm of the gift with all of your questions." It's an attempt to chastise, but he can't quite keep the amusement out of his tone either, and it makes Cullen smile. "You ought to _at least_ read the dedications. To be polite, I mean."

"Oh? Well I wouldn't want to commit any social _faux pas_ , would I?" Cullen carefully pulls the book from its knit wrapping, and Dorian takes the sweater from him when it's free—and promptly slips it on.

The cover art is a stylised drawing of Shayle in her statue form, with low lighting and ominous s shadows to make her look as menacing as possible. _THE STONE PRISONER_ , the title reads, in stark, orange font. Cullen opens the book, careful not to crack the spine, and turns to the dedication page.

' _To all those who helped me write this, in ways large and small. And to you, CSR, most of all:_ " _it is advisable to look from the tide pool to the stars and then back to the tide pool again._ "'

Written by hand underneath the paragraph, is scrawled, ' _Whether it be within some vast ocean or small tide pool, you're still swimming. ~Dorian_ '

Cullen rereads the dedication and the inscription again, and again once more. Both are so much more than he ever could have expected to be waiting for him to read.

"Dorian, I…"

"Oh, hush," Dorian says, his voice quiet. He sips his right arm under Cullen's left, and weaves their fingers together. "You don't need to say anything. Honestly, I wasn't sure about adding anything at all and Mae definitely wanted to kill me for changing the dedication so late, but I just needed to say _something_ , because at the time I didn't think I'd ever have the opportunity in person."

Cullen looks down at their hands clasped together, the metal of Dorian's various rings warming against his skin. "I'd like to say that I was doing fabulously on my own, but I wasn't. So I'm glad you're back, even if only for a little while."

Dorian leans in and presses a long kiss to Cullen's cheek, until Cullen turns his face to meet Dorian's lips.

"We'll make the most of it, hmm? And maybe I'll be able to convince you to come home with me to Denerim, when it's time for me to go."

The gut reaction that once screamed _no_ at the thought of seeing Denerim again doesn't come, and Cullen is well aware of its absence. Somehow it feels much less daunting, when he thinks about tackling it with Dorian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and there we have it! thank you so much to everyone who left kudos or commented along the way ♥ 
> 
> (the quote that Dorian uses in his dedication for Cullen comes from John Steinbeck's The Log from the Sea of Cortez.)

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi on [tumblr](http://starkhavened.tumblr.com) if you like :v


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